Bad Doctor

by John Locke

  Cameron takes her sweet time letting me see what’s under her clothes. That’s fine, I need time to reload. When she’s naked she motions me to lie on my back. When I do, she climbs on the bed, straddles me, and works me inside her. My first thrust forces a sound from her throat that’s meant to be sexy, but puts me in mind of a cow caught up in a breached birth.

  Willow laughs in the background, despite her anger.

  I bite my lip to keep from sharing the laugh.

  Cameron’s short on experience, and her porn star imitation grates on me like Porky Pig reciting Shakespeare. But for no other reason than to piss Willow off further, I pretend I love it. I moan and groan, and thrash about under Cameron and carry on like she’s the lay of my life. Of course, this encourages Cameron, who, bless her heart, starts getting into it. She makes a sudden awkward move and we disengage. Undaunted, she pretends she meant for that to happen, and throws herself on her back, spreads her legs wide and yells, “Do me, Chris! Do me!”

  I scramble to my knees and notice her legs are so long they actually span the king-size bed! I focus on the triangle in the middle, and try to climb aboard, but she bucks her hips repeatedly. After thirty seconds of this bullshit, I press my hand against her lower abdomen and pin her to the bed long enough to get inside her. This time she emits a high-pitched wail and starts chuffing while flailing her long, skinny arms and legs in all directions.

  Can you picture this?

  It’s like trying to fuck an octopus in a windstorm.

  3.

  WILLOW’S FALLEN ASLEEP, so you can imagine how big her eyes get when she opens them and sees the gun in my hand.

  “What the fuck?”

  “Time to shower.”

  She turns toward Cameron, who’s sitting on the bed, naked, crying softly.

  “What happened?”

  “He stole our money.”

  Willow sees her open handbag on the bed. Her body tenses.

  I thumb the hammer back, cocking the pistol.

  “Don’t do it,” I say. “You’re the intruder here.”

  I motion both women to get up and walk in front of me, into the bathroom. They do, and I turn on the shower and nod at Cameron. She gets in and stands in the center, under the running water. I tell Willow to remove her clothes, but she’s decided to take a stand.

  “You’re not gonna shoot me,” she says. “Not in your own bathroom.”

  I slap her face full force.

  She shrieks.

  I slap her again, and she puts her hand up in submission.

  “Get your clothes off!” I yell.

  When she’s naked, I motion her to join her friend.

  If looks could kill, right?

  But they can’t, so Willow steps into the shower.

  It’s a glass shower with a glass door, and I’m standing three feet from them, with the door propped open behind my back. Willow tries to whisper something to Cameron and I say, “I could kill you both right now.”

  They look at each other, sharing a brief moment of terror. Willow’s mouth and legs are trembling. All the defiance she had earlier has leaked out of her like drool from a dying grandparent.

  And yet she’s resourceful.

  “I need to pee,” she says, figuring to split them up, maybe buy some time to make a plan.

  “A drain’s a drain,” I say. “Pee in the shower.”

  I point to the facecloth on the shower bench. “Willow, bend over. Cameron, use the facecloth and soap her private area, hard. When you’re done, switch places.”

  The women look at each other, and Willow says, “He’s going to kill us.”

  Cameron says, “No. He’s just making us get rid of the evidence.”

  “What evidence?” Willow says. “He used a condom.”

  “Still. There could be DNA. Hair, whatever.”

  “Cameron’s right,” I say. “Remove the evidence, and I’ll let you go. You ladies weren’t raped tonight, but I don’t want you claiming you were. Consider it a lesson learned.”

  They soap each other down, then turn to look at me.

  “Again,” I say. “Harder, deeper. Or I’ll do it myself.”

  4.

  AFTER THE WOMEN get dressed, I give them back their handbags and say, “I won’t lecture you, but you shouldn’t smoke cigarettes.”

  Willow checks her bag.

  I hold up the plastic baggies that holds Willow’s cocaine and ground nutmeg. “Looking for these?”

  I put them in my pocket and say, “You can’t be stupid enough to lace cocaine with nutmeg. Then again, it was in your purse.” I sigh. “Let’s go, ladies.”

  I escort them to the side door and hold it open.

  As they pass in front of me, I expect Willow to make a comment like, “This isn’t over,” but she doesn’t. Like Cameron, she’s silent, respectful, eager to leave the house alive.

  I watch till they get in Willow’s car before closing and locking the door. Then I pause a moment, turn around, and slide slowly to the floor, grinning wider than a ventriloquist’s dummy.

  Unbelievable!

  I’ve done some crazy shit in my life, but this tops them all!

  Did I just fuck two strippers and rob them at gunpoint?

  Yes!

  Will they come back and try to kill me?

  I can only hope so!

  Will they tell Bobby Mitchell?

  Will he hunt me down and kill me?

  I’ve never felt so alive! I’m practically hyperventilating from the excitement. I feel cleansed, energized. And strangely, a sense of relief, like a huge weight has been lifted from my shoulders.

  In retrospect, I shouldn’t have taken their money. But seeing the cocaine in Willow’s purse pissed me off, so I decided to punish them where it hurts.

  In the wallet.

  I cock my head.

  Something’s wrong.

  It dawns on me I haven’t heard Willow’s car start up.

  I get to my feet and move to the kitchen window that overlooks the driveway.

  5.

  Willow and Cameron.

  “LET IT GO,” Cameron says.

  They’re in Willow’s car, in Chris Fowler’s driveway.

  “No fucking way! That bastard ripped us off! Not just the five grand, but every nickel we made at the club tonight. Not to mention the blow.”

  “He’s got a gun, Willow.”

  “He’s also got a wife.”

  “So?”

  “He’ll pay us to keep quiet if he knows we’re serious.”

  Cameron bites her lip. “I don’t know. The whole thing could explode in our faces.”

  Willow says, “We’ll drive away, come back first thing in the morning, follow him to work. Then we’ll march in his office and tell him to fork over ten grand.”

  “Ten?”

  “He stole twenty-six hundred in cash, two hundred in coke, and cheated us out of fifty-five hundred.”

  “That comes to eighty-three hundred.”

  “Eighty-three?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’ve always been good at math.”

  “Well, the extra’s for our time and trouble.”

  She sees fear in Cameron’s face.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “He’s staring at us from the window.”

  “So?”

  “He’s holding a phone. I think he’s calling the cops.”

  “Shit!”

  Willow throws the car in gear and backs out of the driveway so fast her tires squeal.

  6.

  Bobby and Willow

  “YOU’RE LATE.”

  “Tell me about it!” Willow says.

  “No, you tell me!” Bobby says. “Where the fuck’ve you been?”

  “I had to cover for China.”

  “The country?”

  “The dancer.”

  “Which one’s that?”

  “The red head.”

  “With the eyeball t
attoo, or the pretty one?”

  “The skinny one,” Willow says, then frowns. “You think she’s pretty?”

  “I’d fuck her.”

  “That’s nice to hear.”

  “I’m just kidding.”

  “Bastard.”

  “I’m kidding, Willow.”

  “I’m going to bed.” She turns to leave.

  “Whoa.”

  She stops.

  “Why didn’t you call?” He says.

  “You took my cell phone. You wanted to play Angry Birds.”

  “I like Angry Birds.”

  “The truth is you don’t trust me to have a cell phone.”

  “I trust you, I just don’t trust men.”

  “Not much point in paying for a cell phone I can’t use.”

  “I use it all the time.”

  “Right. I’m going to bed now, okay?”

  He sniffs the air. Something’s different.

  “You don’t smell like strip club,” he says.

  “I took a shower.”

  “You what?”

  “Took a shower.”

  Bobby gets up from his beer chair and positions himself between her and the bedroom door. “Did I tell you never to shower there?”

  “You did.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “Because you think the owner spies on the girls.”

  “I know he does.”

  “Fine. Whatever. But Marvin left after the first shift.”

  “So?”

  “Ten minutes to closing time, some guy vomited three feet from me, and I couldn’t get the smell out of my hair. I stood guard while Cameron showered, then she stood guard for me.”

  He thinks about that, then lifts her chin up to put more light on her face.

  “What happened here?”

  He touches her cheek where Chris Fowler slapped her an hour ago.

  “Is it still swollen?” she says.

  He starts to puff up like when he’s about to punch out some poor schlub at Shady’s. “Who hit you?” he says.

  “Cameron.”

  “What?”

  “When the drunk puked, I jumped and turned away and Cameron smacked me by mistake.”

  He frowns.

  “Tell me the truth. Did someone hit you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  “I already told you.”

  “Cameron.”

  “That’s right. You’ve seen her dance. She throws her arms all over the place. I ran into one of them.”

  Bobby laughs.

  Willow says, “Glad you think it’s funny.”

  “You hit her back?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Why?”

  “It was an accident.”

  “I’d have smacked her anyway.”

  “Of course you would. Can I go to bed now?”

  He stares at her cheek a while longer, then says, “How much did you make?”

  “Nine-sixty.”

  “No shit? That’s a world record!”

  “Trust me, I earned every cent.”

  He smiles a gappy, brown-toothed smile that makes her cringe.

  “Nine hundred and sixty dollars?”

  “That’s right.”

  He rubs his fingers together. “Like they say in the movies—”

  She looks at him blankly.

  He rubs his fingers some more. Then says, “Show me the money.”

  “I’ll have to show you tomorrow.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’m getting it first thing in the morning.”

  “The fuck’re you talking about?”

  “They rang out the shift while I was in the shower.”

  “You let them take your money?”

  She sighs. “You act like it’s never happened before. I’ve got a receipt.”

  Bobby puts his hand out. “Cough it up.”

  Willow shows him a piece of paper that explains she earned twelve hundred ten, minus her stage fee of two-fifty, for a net of nine-sixty.

  “I can’t believe you have to pay those bastards two hundred and fifty bucks to work for tips.”

  “It’s been like that since I started.”

  He squints. “Whose signature is that?”

  “Gary’s.”

  “Where’d he learn to write?”

  She shrugs. “Kindergarten?”

  He laughs. “What time tomorrow?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll have it long before you wake up.”

  “Make sure you do.”

  “Can I go to bed now?” she says.

  He gives her a long, hard look, but stands aside to let her pass.

  “Nice ass,” he says, as she enters the room.

  7.

  Willow and Cameron.

  Friday, 8:30 a.m.

  “MAYBE HE’S SKIPPING work today,” Cameron says, between yawns.

  “It’s Friday. He’s going to work.”

  “It’s eight-thirty, Willow.”

  “So?”

  “We got here at six-fifteen, right?”

  Willow pauses a minute, then says, “You’re right. I’m going in.”

  She climbs out of the car, crosses two well-manicured yards, walks up to Chris Fowler’s front door, and rings the doorbell.

  Waits a few seconds, rings it again.

  And again.

  She moves to the living room window, puts her hands on either side of her face to block the glare, and peers inside.

  Nothing.

  She rounds the house and looks through the sliding glass door of the den.

  Nothing.

  She goes to the backside of the garage, peeks through the window, and sees the same burgundy Escalade she saw last night when Chris pulled up and opened the garage door. But Chris’s black Mercedes sedan is missing.

  Assuming his name is Chris.

  Could he have used a fake name?

  Willow walks back through the front yard, opens the mailbox, and removes a thick stack of bills and magazines. She riffles through them. The bills were sent to Christopher Fowler. Most of the magazines, to Kathy Fowler.

  Willow walks back to her car and tells Cameron they’ve lost Chris.

  “Lost him?”

  “His car’s gone.”

  Cameron shakes her head. “I can’t believe we sat here all this time. It makes sense he’d go to work early if his wife’s coming home at noon.”

  “Her name’s Kathy. Her car’s still in the garage.”

  “What now?”

  “We come back at noon and wait for them.”

  “You think he’ll be with her?”

  “Yup. He’ll probably pick her up at the airport. When they get home, we’ll knock on the door and have a little chat with him.”

  “In front of Kathy?”

  “That’ll be up to Chris.”

  8.

  Dr. Gideon Box

  Friday, 8:45 a.m.

  THE AUDITORIUM AT Wentworth Christian Academy is as packed as you’d expect on graduation day. I slip inside and try to blend in with the dads standing against the back wall. The principal introduces the faculty, and tells a lame joke that elicits polite chuckling.

  The man on my right leans into my face space, practically touching my ear with his lips.

  “Proud papa?”

  “Friend of the family,” I say, staring straight ahead.

  “Which one?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Which kid are you here to see?”

  Instead of answering, I say, “Which one’s yours?”

  “The tall one, second row, all the way on the left.”

  “Nice looking young lady,” I say.

  “We’re going to keep her,” he says, chuckling.

  Before he has a chance to annoy me further, the kids sing a song. Then another. Then the principal goes to the podium and announces the name of the little girl I came to see.

  Shelby Lynn Meyers.

  V
aledictorian.

  Who ever heard of a sixth-grade class having a valedictorian?

  But Shelby’s special. She strolls to the podium full of life, and delivers a three-minute speech in a crisp, clear tone. She tells the audience how lucky she is to be alive, how seven years ago she came within an inch of dying. She talks about how she woke up in the hospital after her ordeal and realized every day is a precious blessing, a gift from God.

  Little Shelby and I have a connection. It’s why I’m standing here, transfixed by her presence. She’s the reason I traveled all the way from Manhattan, where I live and work.

  I wanted to see her.

  Had to see her.

  Shelby’s the first kid I saved, and the least likely to survive.

  After eight hours of what can best be described as a surgical cluster fuck the two surgeons charged with assisting me attempted to pronounce Shelby dead.

  I told them to fuck themselves. One gave me a stern warning, the other left the room in a huff.

  But I was on a roll.

  I cursed the surgeon who left and the one who remained equally. I cursed the nurses and called them terrible names. I even cursed Shelby Lynn, the little dead kid on my table. I made fun of her blue body and rotten internal organs. Called her a freak, a monster, and every other horrific name I could think of. I cursed her parents, her friends, relatives, and ancestors.

  After calling her every name in the book, I yelled, “Don’t die on me, you little muff-munching bitch. If you even try to die I’ll set your parents on fire! I’ll kill your friends! I’ll celebrate your birthday each year by bludgeoning a child to death.”

  You know, stuff like that.

  Before you get all bent out of shape, remember, she was only five. There’s no way she could know what bludgeoning meant.

  But the medical staff thought I was suffering a meltdown. They stayed in the room to chronicle my behavior so they could report me later. That changed when I poked Shelby’s dead body and slapped the bottoms of her feet while screaming at her. At that point the room cleared, save for the gas guy and a nurse, both of whom were yelling their own threats at me.

  I didn’t care. This kid was simply not going to die on my watch.

  I felt it.

  I knew it.

  I just figured I hadn’t put together the right combination of words yet.

  I was right.