by John Locke
“She’s a virtual paraplegic now.”
Dr. Barnard says, “Not true. Her actual diagnosis is paraparesis, a condition in which she has partial paralysis. Over the next few days she’ll have increased, but limited use of her legs. While she’ll never be able to walk again, she’ll have some feeling in her legs. With extensive physical therapy, she could eventually hope to move them on her own, in a swimming pool.”
“In a swimming pool?”
“It’s not as grim as it sounds.”
“Really? Because it sounds pretty grim to me! How many swimming terrorists do you know?”
“Excuse me?”
“Who’s she going to be able to kill, a water aerobics instructor?”
Dr. Barnard appears uncomfortable with the direction the conversation has taken.
He says, “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
“We need to find a surgeon who’ll give it a try. Callie will take the chance. I guarantee she’ll sign off on it.”
The doctors look at each other.
Dr. P. says, “Donovan. The doctors won’t do it because they’re almost certain to worsen her condition. Their insurance carriers would never agree to the surgery, and no hospital would allow it to be performed for the same reason.”
As he says this he gives me a wink. To Dr. Barnard it means nothing. An involuntary reflex, a facial tick. But to me it speaks volumes. Dr. P. held the same position at Sensory Resources that I’ve just agreed to take, but just as I’m also a free-lance hit man for the mob, Darwin had another job. He was Chief of Surgery at Sensory Resources. Our private hospital is full-service, with more high-tech equipment than any hospital in the country. Sensory is where spies go to get new faces. It’s where I got mine, and where Dr. P. once supervised the implanting of a micro chip in my brain. It’s also where presidents go to get checked out when they don’t want the rest of the world to know what’s wrong with them. If their medical issue turns out to be something minor, we ship them from Sensory to Walter Reed, and inform the public. We haven’t had a life-or-death presidential situation yet, but if we did, the president would have the procedure done at Sensory Resources, and we’d keep his condition a secret from the media.
I thank Dr. Barnard for his time and ask, “When can I see her?”
“Let’s give them twenty minutes to get her settled.”
I nod.
“She’ll be a bit groggy,” he says.
“I like her groggy!” I say with more enthusiasm than Dr. Barnard expected.
He gives me an odd look, then leaves.
I’m excited at the possibilities, and quite pleased with myself for not killing Dr. P. when I learned he turned my daughter into a contract killer last year. I’d tell you more, but that’s a whole other story.
“You’ll do the surgery?” I say.
“Lower your voice,” he whispers. “Here’s the thing. We need to get Callie to Sensory Resources as soon as possible.”
“Fine. We’ll sign her out.”
“These are civilians, Donovan. It doesn’t work like that. They won’t release her in her current condition.”
“If her condition’s that fragile, maybe she should stay here a few days.”
“She can’t. The longer we delay the surgery, the less likely it will be successful.”
“Why?”
“A thousand reasons.”
“Give me one I can understand.”
“As the area around the bullet fragments heals, scar tissue forms. Then—”
I wave him off. “Never mind. We’re wasting time. If I can kidnap her, get her to Sensory tonight, you’ll do the surgery?”
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“This goes way beyond my training.”
“You’re the greatest plastic surgeon in the world.”
“Thanks. The world happens to agree with you. But this is sub-dermal. Inside the body. You need a specialist.”
He sees I don’t get it yet and says, “I happen to know the world’s greatest hand surgeon lives thirty minutes from this very hospital. But if you needed open-heart surgery, would you want her working on you? I hope not, because she wouldn’t have the slightest idea where to start.”
“Then what’s your plan?”
He looks around before answering. As if what he’s about to say might get him into worse trouble than suggesting I kidnap Callie. He says, “You won’t need to kidnap Callie. You’re the director of Sensory Resources. You have unlimited power.”
“We’re a clandestine agency. No one even knows we exist.”
He smiles. “Your power comes from those who gave you the job. I’ll teach you how to tap into their power to get any political door in the world opened, or any investigation closed. One well-placed phone call, Callie’s on MedEvac to Virginia.”
“Can I use that power to force a surgeon to do the operation?”
“No.”
“Then what’s the plan?”
“We need to get the best type of surgeon for the job.”
“What type would that be?”
“After reviewing Callie’s MRI films, I’m convinced we need a congenital/cardiothoracic surgeon. One who specializes in pediatric surgery.”
“Pediatric? You mean a children’s surgeon?”
“Preferably.”
“Why?”
“They’re uniquely qualified to deal with microsurgery.”
“Are these guys hard to find?”
“The best in any field is always easy to find.”
“So what’s the plan?”
“We fly to New York, meet this guy, try to talk him into doing the surgery.”
“And if he refuses?”
“You’ll kidnap him and take him to Sensory. And this must be done quickly.”
“Can I see Callie first?”
“Yes, but we’re on a timetable here, Donovan. I can’t stress that enough.”
“Got it.”
I call the geeks, update them on Callie’s condition, ask them to arrange a jet copter to land on the roof of the hospital.
“No problem,” Curly says. “Assuming you’re talking about the remote control toy.”
“What toy?”
“Jet copters aren’t real, Mr. Creed. Did you mean a jet helicopter?”
“Yeah, whatever.”
“What’s your destination?”
“New York City.”
“Bad idea.”
“Why?”
“Average cruising speed, a hundred miles per hour. Two stops for fuel, you’re looking at a ten-hour trip.”
“How about a limo and a Lear Jet?”
“Three hours.”
“Make it happen.”
I click the phone off and say, “It’s arranged.”
He nods.
I say, “This guy we’re meeting in New York City. He’s the best?”
“Unquestionably. He’s also the greatest pediatric heart surgeon in the world.”
“You know him?”
“By reputation only.”
“What’s his name?”
“Dr. Gideon Box.”
47.
“HI BEAUTIFUL!” I say.
“Hi Romeo,” Callie says.
She’s pale, her voice is slurred.
She says, “I’m so sorry, Donovan.”
A tear trickles down her cheek.
“We’ve got a plan.”
“If it involves kickboxing, you’ll have to start without me,” she says, forcing a weak smile.
“We’re taking you to Sensory as soon as you’re stable enough for MedEvac.”
“Why?”
“We found a doctor who might be able to get you on your feet again.”
Her eyes light up. “No shit?”
“No shit.”
She sees Dr. P. standing behind me.
“Who’s your boyfriend?”
“Dr. Petrovsky.”
Callie frowns. “You’re still palling around with Darwin?”
Dr. P. looks around, nervously. “Please, my dear,” he says. “Let’s refrain from using the D word.”
“You trust him?” she says.
“Sometimes.”
“Is this one of those times?”
“Yes.”
“What do you need me to do?”
“Rest. Enjoy the drugs. But get stronger.”
“You want me to multi-task at a time like this? Good thing I’m a woman.”
“Why’s that?”
“Women are better multi-taskers than men.”
“Bullshit.”
“You disagree?” she says.
“Of course. Men can have sex and a headache at the same time.”
“The headache is an excuse. We say that when we don’t want to have sex. You didn’t know?”
“Doesn’t matter. You’ve still proven me right.”
She arches an eyebrow. “How so?”
“Men don’t have to have sex, but when it’s available, we don’t want to leave it on the table. So if we’ve got a headache, or if there’s a ball game on in the next room we can deal with the headache, listen to the game, and have sex, all at the same time. We’re the ultimate multi-taskers.”
“When it comes to sex.”
“And football. And eating.”
“I can’t think of three things less important to a happy life.”
“You just need the right dinner, the right team, and the right sexual partner.”
“Any suggestions?”
She gives me her come-hither look.
I smile and give her a kiss.
She says, “You owe me a dance. Even if I’m in a wheelchair.”
“At Sal’s party you danced alone. I let you down.”
“I agree. So how do you plan to make it up to me?”
“By doing everything in my power to help you regain the full use of your dancing legs.”
“And if I do?”
“You’ll never dance alone again.”
“Say it better.”
“From now on I’ll dance with you every time you ask.”
“For the rest of your life?”
I nod.
She laughs.
“What?”
“You hate dancing.”
“But I love you.”
“I appreciate your love. But don’t start wearing a dress, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Now quit hanging around,” she says. “Go fetch my doctor!”
48.
DR. GIDEON BOX enters his office so briskly he doesn’t see us sitting on his sofa.
Then he does.
Instead of being startled, he frowns and says, “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m Creed. This is Dr. P. We’ve come for a consult.”
“I don’t do consults unless they’ve been cleared by our advisory board. And how the fuck did you get in here?”
“We walked in,” I say. Then add, “That’s pretty salty language for a pediatrician.”
“Pediatric surgeon,” Dr. P. says, correcting me.
Dr. Box tries to correct me further, saying, “You didn’t just walk in here. We’ve got security.”
“You mean we’re not really here?” I say.
“How about I call security, and let them sort it out,” he says, reaching for the phone.
Before he can press the button to summon security, I’ve crossed the room and ripped the cord from the wall. I notice he’s leaning on his desk, supporting himself with his right hand, fingers outstretched. I grab my knife from the sheaf on my ankle and quickly stab the desk between each of his fingers, one after the other, over and over, increasing my speed with each thrust.
When I stop, he says, “That’s rather dramatic, don’t you think?”
Under the circumstances, him being a world-class surgeon and all, I’d have to say Dr. Box is one cool customer.
“We’ve brought x-rays,” I say. “I need you to take a look and give me your opinion.”
“Fuck off,” he says.
Dr. P. says, “We flew here from Cincinnati to get your opinion about a surgery.”
“Round trip or one way?”
“Private jet.”
“I’m impressed. But the answer’s still no.”
I say, “This patient is very important to me.”
“Why should I care?”
I look at Dr. P. and ask, “Do we really need this guy?”
“I think so. Don’t kill him yet.”
“Who are you guys, really?” Dr. Box says. “Is this some sort of joke? Am I being secretly filmed? You, old guy: you look familiar. Are you guys strippers?”
Dr. P. and I look at each other.
Strippers?
I’m in my early forties, he’s in his late sixties.
“I’ll ask you again, nicely,” I say, trying to sound nice. “I’d appreciate it if you look at these x-rays and MRI films and tell me if you have the ability to perform this operation.”
“Tell you what,” he says. “I’ll thumb-wrestle you for it.”
“Dr. Box,” Dr. P. says. “This is Donovan Creed.”
“So?”
“He’s a government assassin.”
“Doesn’t mean he has thumb strength.”
“He recently crushed the bones in a bouncer’s hand like the man had rickets. He will absolutely break your thumb. If he does, you’re of no use to us.”
“George Washington,” Dr. Box says.
“Huh? What about him?” I say.
Dr. Box reaches his hand into his pocket and pulls out a pecan.
“George Washington’s the only man I’ve ever heard of who had enough thumb strength to crack a pecan.”
“So?”
“If you can do it, I’ll look at your x-rays.”
“Toss it here.”
He does.
I catch the pecan, study it, and frown.
“Something wrong, Mr. Creed?”
“This is made out of lead.”
“In that case I guess we’re through here.”
Dr. P. tosses me his wallet.
“What now?” Dr. Box says.
I remove Dr. P.’s driver’s license and hand it to Dr. Box.
He reads the name out loud. “Dr. Eamon Petrovsky.”
Then looks at Dr. P. and says, “Never heard of you.”
Dr. P. raises his eyebrows.
Dr. Box says, “Just kidding. You’re my hero. Swear to God, I thought you were dead. Show me the films.”
Dr. P. shows him the films and explains Callie’s condition and situation using medical terms I can’t begin to understand.
“What do you think, Doctor?” Dr. P. says.
“Child’s play.”
“Excuse me?” I say.
“This operation is beneath me. You’ll have to get someone else.”
“Are you fucking with me?” I say.
Dr. P. sees I’m losing my temper. He holds up a hand to stop me from doing something I might regret. He says, “Dr. Box, I’m told this is an impossible operation.”
“For a dentist, maybe.”
“No surgeon in the country will touch it.”
“Typical,” he says. “My nurse could successfully perform this operation.”
“Would you do us the honor of giving Callie Carpenter the use of her legs?” Dr. P. says.
“You got a picture of her?”
“Excuse me?”
“Is she hot?”
I take out my cell phone and pull up a picture of Callie.
“Holy shit!” he says.
“Will you perform the operation?” Dr. P. asks.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“The hospital will never approve it.”
“Why?”
“You know why. It’s too risky. There’s not enough upside. Best case? She regains full use of her legs. Worst case? She dies.”
“She’ll take the risk,” I say.
“Of course she will,” Dr. Box
says. “But the hospital won’t. If it was a matter of life-and-death, maybe. But it’s not. There’s every reason to believe she could live another ten, twenty years.”
“Ten or twenty? She’s only twenty-six!” I say.
“Don’t worry, she’ll age pretty quickly from here on out.”
“Suppose I can get the hospital’s approval,” I say.
“You’d still need mine,” he says.
“Do you care to keep living?” I say.
“Not really.”
“No?”
“What have I got to live for? I hate my job. I hate people, and they hate me. My girlfriend moved away and I’m about to lose the greatest surgical nurse who ever lived. I’ve…”
“You’ve what?”
He smiles.
“What?”
“You’re Donovan Creed.”
“That’s right.”
“From Las Vegas.”
“You know me?”
“I’ve heard your name before.”
“Where?”
“I’ll tell you another time. Unless you decide to kill me now. Speaking of which, nothing would make me happier than to have you kill me. I’d pay you to kill me.”
“What’re you, insane?”
“Possibly. Or maybe I’m too sane to want to keep living like this.”
“I’ll pay you a hundred million dollars to perform this operation.”
“And if I refuse you’ll kill me?”
“Worse.”
He licks his lips, enthusiastically. “Tell me!”
“I’ll kidnap you, rip off your nuts, sever your spinal cord, and make you spend the rest of your miserable life the way you’re sentencing Callie to live.”
“You’re a rude personality,” he says.
“You’d be wise not to forget that.”
He says, “I actually believe you kill people for money. But you also torture them?”
“Sometimes.”
“Are you any good at it?”
“I excel at torture. Why do you ask?”
“I’ve got a list of people who need to experience pain in their lives. And I’m tired of waiting for them to get sick.”
“I have no idea what that means,” I say, “but it sounds like we’re about to forge an agreement, yes?”
“I hope so.”
Dr. Box isn’t shitting me. He goes to his computer and prints out a list. Twenty-two names with addresses, phone numbers, relatives, and personal notes.
“The people on this list have wronged me,” he says.
