Bad Doctor

by John Locke

Because when I yelled, “Fine! Die on me, you little shit! I’m going to throw you in the trash and feed you to my dog for supper!”—her heart started beating.

  From that day to this, I cussed every nurse, anesthesiologist, surgeon, robot, and child who entered my OR. The doctors and nurses don’t care for it, but the kids seem to respond.

  Eventually.

  Shelby Lynn responded, and now here she is, alive, standing before me, a valedictorian. She’s winding down her speech. There’s her smile, and her final words, “Thank you!”

  A split-second pause occurs.

  In that quiet moment after the end of her speech, before the audience rises to give her a standing ovation, she spots me in the back of the auditorium.

  We lock eyes.

  In that scant second of time I see her little mouth break into a grin, and suddenly my view and hers is blocked by three hundred cheering adults.

  I don’t want to take the spotlight away from Shelby, or piss off her parents, who at one time threatened to kill me. I wouldn’t have come if they invited me, but it was Shelby who wrote the letter, and that made all the difference. Seeing her letter in my hands made me realize something important.

  If I had allowed the other surgeons to pronounce her dead seven years ago, the world would still be spinning, but it wouldn’t be as special. Someone less deserving would be delivering the speech today, and someone else would marry the man Shelby’s meant to marry, and no one on earth would be here to create the amazing kids Shelby would have birthed.

  Shelby lived.

  And someday she’ll have children of her own, and her children will have children, and…

  Yes, I’m a shitty person. I break into houses and fuck lap dancers and no one likes me, and yes, I poked five-year-old Shelby’s dead body around the table and slapped her feet and threatened to kill her parents and cussed her till my voice went hoarse.

  But I saved Shelby’s life, and she’s going to make the world a better place to be.

  I slip out the back and rush to my car before anyone else recognizes me.

  9.

  SHELBY’S RIGHT, SHE is lucky to be alive. But the stress and pressure of saving her nearly did me in. I went on a drunk fest and woke up three days later in a stranger’s garage, with a cat licking blood off my forehead.

  I’ve got issues.

  In the early days, I only got one or two impossible cases each year, so the stress was spaced out. Now that I’m internationally known, I’ve become the St. Jude of pediatrics, the surgeon of last resort, relegated to hopeless, desperate causes.

  While I sometimes go weeks without operating, every morning I wake up knowing I could face an emergency situation. You’d think every day without one would be a day of relief, but I never know if a day’s over till the next one dawns, because emergency surgery often requires me to be ready on an hours’ notice. It’s the reason they placed my OR near the maternity ward.

  When I don my scrubs I walk a tightrope of perfection. The slightest twitch, the smallest bead of sweat that hits the corner of my eye…can kill a child. I’m stressed like a postal worker on steroids, with an Uzi in one hand and a pink slip in the other.

  Multiplied by ten.

  To cope with this debilitating pressure, I’ve become an adrenalin junkie. It’s why I do insane things, like take off from work, fly to Cincinnati and break into some guy’s house, a guy so stupid he posted his vacation itinerary on Facebook!

  It used to be enough to fly to Atlantic City for a few hours and drop five thousand dollar chips on numbers seventeen and twenty on the roulette wheel every spin until I’d won or lost a quarter million dollars. Win or lose, I’d relieve enough stress to handle a few more weeks of forced perfection.

  But the rush from gambling faded.

  I went through a phase where I’d break into homes and pretend I’m someone else for a few days. I’d go through their belongings, their mail, try to tap into their computers, view their photos and videos.

  It’s a thrill to know you’re in someone else’s house illegally.

  A friend or relative might swing by unexpectedly to check on the place, a neighbor might see lights or movement...

  It happened to me once. During a routine check, the neighbors found me in Mike and Chrissy’s house. I gave them a bullshit story about how Mike and Chrissy called me at the last minute and asked me to stay there till they got back on Sunday, and how Chrissy’s sister, Ethel, was married to my brother, Mark, and so forth. I invited them in for coffee, and by the time they left, we were best friends.

  Of course, I hauled ass out of there before they had time to call Mike and Chrissy!

  My condition’s getting worse. What’s really scary, I’m developing a death wish.

  This time it wasn’t enough to break into Chris Fowler’s house and pretend I’m him. This time I found myself in a biker bar, buying premium drinks for a primitive redneck named Bobby Mitchell, who told me all about his beautiful girlfriend who gives lap dances at a strip joint downtown on Barmeade. He said his girlfriend, Willow, has only been with one man in the world, and I was looking at him. Said if Willow ever decides to stray, he’ll hunt down the bastard that did her, cut his dick off, and sew it into Willow’s mouth.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time I killed a guy,” he said, winking, and I believed him.

  At that moment the only important thing in my world was Willow.

  I had to meet her, had to have her!

  It was a case of fuck Willow or go insane.

  Now that I’ve made my conquest and cheated Bobby Mitchell out of killing me for fucking his girlfriend, I’m recharged, rejuvenated, and ready to head back to Manhattan to save some more lives.

  I fire up the rental car and wonder how many of the kids I save will grow up to be like Shelby, and how many will grow up to be Willows or Camerons? How many will grow up to be Bobby Mitchells, Chuckies, or Dr. Gideon Boxes, for that matter? As long as the kids I save turn out better than me, I’m earning my keep.

  I fish the two thick envelopes from the side pocket of my suit jacket and look at them. Each envelope contains sixty hundreds. My plane isn’t scheduled to leave for hours, so I’ll swing by the strip club and leave these envelopes for Willow and Cameron. It should more than cover what I owe, including the blow I forgot to flush down the toilet.

  The club looks twice as filthy by day, and there are two cars parked by the front door. I go inside and hear a vacuum cleaner running, but it’s so dark I can’t see who’s operating it. I stand in the doorway and wait for my eyes to adjust.

  The vacuum cleaner stops.

  From across the room a woman’s voice hollers, “Sir? We don’t open till four.”

  “Is the manager in?” I yell.

  “Hang on a sec,” she says.

  By the time the manager comes out, my eyes are working again.

  “What can I do for you?” he says.

  “If I give you something to hold for two of your dancers, will they get it?”

  He sizes me up.

  “You’re the guy from last night.”

  I don’t respond.

  He says, “Willow and Cameron.”

  I shrug.

  He says, “You can’t see the girls outside the club.”

  “I know. I’m leaving town and wanted to give them a gift.”

  He holds his hand out. “Give it to me, I’ll see they get it.”

  Something in his manner tells me the girls will never see the money, and something in his look makes me very uncomfortable. I hear the roar of a motorcycle outside, and realize I’m standing in a strip club holding two envelopes containing twelve thousand in cash, and no one on earth knows I’m here.

  “That’s okay,” I say. “I’ll give it to them next time.”

  “You sure about that?”

  As I turn to leave, the door opens and Bobby Mitchell walks in.

  Knowing it’ll take a few seconds for his eyes to adjust, I shield my face and try to work my way aroun
d him.

  Maybe it’s the lifestyle, but Bobby’s eyes have no problem adjusting to the light.

  “Whoa,” he says, putting an arm out to stop me. You’re the guy from last night.”

  “Nice to see you again,” I say, noting my voice sounds like I’m twelve years old again, in the shower with Joe and his piss buddies.

  Bobby says, “What the fuck’re you doing here?”

  “You mentioned the place last night, thought I’d check it out.”

  “In the middle of the morning?”

  “I wanted to get the feel of the place. Maybe come back tonight.”

  Bobby looks at the manager. “Does that make sense to you, Gary?”

  Gary says, “He came in last night. Bought a dozen lap dances from two of the girls.”

  “A dozen each?”

  “All together.”

  “Which two?”

  My eyes search the immediate area for any type of weapon I can use against this beastly man, but nothing looks remotely possible.

  “Ask him,” Gary says.

  Bobby moves closer. He’s practically on top of me. There’s no way out of this.

  “Which two girls?” Bobby says.

  “Uh, Cameron?” I say.

  “Cameron?”

  “I might not have her name right.”

  Bobby glances at Gary. “Was Stringbean one of them?”

  He nods.

  Bobby turns back to me. So you bought a dozen lap dances from Cameron and another girl?”

  I nod.

  He says, “Which other girl?”

  10.

  Willow and Cameron.

  Friday, 1:15 p.m.

  WILLOW AND CAMERON pay no attention to the dark Lexus till it turns into Chris Fowler’s driveway.

  As the garage door opens, the girls snap to attention.

  “Wrong car!” Willow says.

  “Are you sure he was driving a Mercedes?”

  “Positive.”

  “We did a couple of lines, remember.”

  “True. And it was dark.” She frowns. “It was definitely a luxury sedan.”

  Cameron says, “I think you’re right about the Mercedes. Could they own three cars?”

  The Lexus enters the garage, and they watch the door close behind it.

  “They’re pretty rich,” Willow says. “The house has to be at least seven-fifty. And they’ve got a three-car garage. It’s possible.”

  “So Chris isn’t here?”

  “Unless she picked him up.”

  “Maybe we should just forget it,” Cameron says.

  “Are you kidding me? I’m already in deep shit with Bobby. If I don’t bring home nine hundred-sixty bucks, he’ll kill me.”

  Cameron shakes her head. “You’re so pretty. And smart. You shouldn’t have to put up with that shit.”

  “Tell Bobby, okay?”

  “He’s abusive.”

  “Ya think?”

  They’re quiet a moment.

  Willow says, “Let’s bring this thing to a head.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Follow my lead.”

  They get out of the car, walk to the front door, ring the bell.

  A woman opens the door and says, “May I help you?”

  Willow says, “You’re Kathy? Chris Fowler’s wife?”

  “Yes. How can I help you?”

  “Is Chris here?”

  She looks them over. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

  “I’m Willow Breeland, and this is Cameron Mason.”

  “And how do you know my husband?”

  Willow and Cameron exchange a look, then notice the concern in Kathy’s face.

  “I think you should leave,” Kathy says.

  She starts to close the door, but Willow wedges her foot inside the frame, pulls Bobby’s 9 millimeter from her purse and sticks it in Kathy’s face.

  Kathy says, “Oh, God!” and backs into her living room.

  Willow and Cameron follow her in, and Cameron locks the door.

  “Jesus, Willow!” Cameron says.

  “Please,” Kathy says. “Take whatever you want.”

  “You told her our names!” Cameron says.

  Willow sighs. “I know. Shit!”

  Kathy says, “We’ve got a safe in the bedroom closet.”

  “Shut up!” Willow says. “I need to think.”

  Kathy backs up to the couch and sits down. She’s shaking so hard her teeth are chattering.

  Cameron says, “Show us the safe.”

  They head back to the bedroom, but when they reach the hall, Willow says “Shhh!” and makes them stop.

  To Kathy she whispers, “Who’s back there?”

  “N-no one.”

  “Then why do I hear water running?”

  “I was running water for my bath. I’ve been out of town and—”

  “I’ll check it out,” Cameron says. “If I scream, shoot Kathy. Then come get me.”

  Willow’s eyes get big, but not as big as Kathy’s.

  “Want to change your story about running water for the bath?” Cameron says.

  Kathy shakes her head no.

  Cameron disappears into the bedroom.

  “Please,” Kathy whispers. “You’re not like her. I can feel it.”

  “Please be quiet,” Willow says.

  “Don’t let her kill me!” Kathy says.

  “We’re not going to kill you. We just want what’s ours.”

  “What does that mean?” Kathy says.

  Before Willow can answer, Cameron comes back in the hallway and says, “She was telling the truth.”

  “You didn’t turn off the water?” Willow says.

  “We’ll turn it off in a minute. First, let’s see how much money they’ve got.”

  It takes three tries, but Kathy finally gets the safe open, and Willow counts out fifteen hundred in fifties and twenties.

  “That’s it?” she says.

  “There are some gold coins in the back,” Kathy says. “And jewelry.”

  “Too risky,” Cameron says.

  Willow looks at the cash, then at Cameron. Her lip quivers, thinking about the beating she’s going to get. She’s about to cry.

  “You can have my half,” Cameron says.

  “No. That wouldn’t be fair.”

  “You can pay me back later. There’s enough here to pay Bobby and still put five hundred into our secret fund.”

  “You’re the best, Cameron.”

  “You too.”

  They look at Kathy.

  Cameron says, “She knows our names.”

  “I know. I’m sorry!”

  “Please,” Kathy says. “There’s no need to hurt me. I won’t say a word.”

  Willow frowns. “That is such bullshit!”

  She turns to her friend. “Talk to me, Cam.”

  Cameron says, “Give me the gun.”

  Willow says, “You can’t just shoot her.”

  “No. But I can make her walk into the bathroom.”

  Kathy says, “You don’t need the gun. I’ll go in the bathroom.”

  The three women enter the bathroom where two of them showered ten hours ago. Willow notices a different facecloth on the shower bench, which means Chris probably cleaned up before leaving. Cameron points at the large whirlpool tub on the far side of the room and says, “Get on your hands and knees, and lean your head over the edge of the tub.”

  Kathy pauses.

  “Hand me the gun, Willow,” Cameron says.

  She does, then turns off the water.

  “Please,” Kathy says. “I’m begging you. Don’t shoot me!”

  “I’m not going to shoot you.”

  “I wish I could believe you.”

  “We’re going to tie your hands behind your back and you’re going to give us two full hours before calling anyone.”

  “I won’t tell a soul about this. Not even Chris.”

  Willow says, “It’s Chris’s fault this happened in the fi
rst place!”

  Kathy’s confused, but she lowers herself to the floor and gets on her hands and knees. She positions her neck over the side of the tub and puts her hands behind her back.

  “What can we tie her with?” Willow says.

  “They’ve got phones in the bedroom and kitchen. Remove the phone cords while I keep an eye on Kathy,” Cameron says. “But hurry!”

  “Okay.”

  When Willow leaves the room, Cameron smashes the side of Kathy’s head with the gun butt.

  Kathy’s arms start to jerk. She tries to raise up. Cameron puts her mouth next to Kathy’s ear and whispers, “Do you have any idea what your husband did to us? It’s payback time, bitch!”

  She slams the butt of the gun against Kathy’s head again, and her body goes slack. Cameron locks her arm under Kathy’s left armpit and tries to hoist her up over the edge of the tub into the water.

  But she’s too heavy.

  Knowing Willow will be back any minute, Cameron gets on the floor and works her shoulders under Kathy’s legs and pushes upward. Of course this action requires Cameron’s face to be pressed into Kathy’s butt, and she thinks if Willow walks in at this precise moment she’ll wonder what the hell Cameron’s doing to the lady of the manor.

  It’s not pleasant, but it’s the only way she can raise Kathy high enough to get her head under water.

  It works.

  Kathy’s waist is on the edge of the tub, her face in the water.

  Cameron scrambles to her feet and pushes Kathy’s head in deeper and holds it there. Moments later Willow enters the room with the phone cords in her hand and screams, “Omigod! You killed her!”

  “I had to!”

  “No! Jesus, Cam! Let her up!”

  Willow turns off the water.

  Cameron says, “She tried to kill me!”

  “What? How?”

  “She pushed her body against me, tried to knock me down.”

  “Omigod! I shouldn’t have left you here alone.”

  “It’s okay. I hit her with the gun.”

  Willow looks around. “There’s not much blood.”

  “That’s a good thing, right?”

  “Jesus, Cam.”

  “I panicked.”

  “You drowned her?”

  “It started off like self-defense. But I was so scared! I just kept pushing her head down to keep her from getting to me.”