by John Locke
Tootie Greene raises her hand.
“Yes?”
“I thought someone was kicking the door while playing a high volume recording of killer whales singing across the ocean.”
I look at Mary.
“Sir?”
“Anything to add?”
“To me it sounded like you were flogging an angry banshee. No offense, Mrs. Peters.”
10.
“I’M AWARE THE conditions aren’t ideal in here,” I say, “but believe me, I’ve seen worse.”
I call Joe Penny to fix the phone. While he does that, I coerce William into calling the attorneys. As he fires them, we learn they’ve already blown through half the contingency fee.
“You’ve wasted over a hundred grand,” I say. “Now stop this nonsense, and I’ll tell you why it wouldn’t have worked in the first place. Your medical director, Dr. Phyllis Willis, was murdered in this very building two weeks ago, along with several members of her staff. What you may not know is why. Shall I tell you?”
No one speaks, so I continue.
“Dr. Willis helped supervise the implanting of a chip into the brain of a government assassin named Connor Payne. The chip can be activated by remote control. When a four-digit code is entered, the chip heats up and Mr. Payne’s brains will liquefy. How many of you knew that, raise your hands.”
No one does.
“George?” I say.
George reluctantly raises his hand. The others appear shocked.
“Your company, Ropic Industries, manufactured the chip.”
“That’s ridiculous!” William Wadsworth says.
“Tell them, George.”
“You know it’s true, William,” George says. “You signed off on it.”
Mary’s jaw drops. She looks at William like he’s a child molester.
“There’s more. Phyllis was having an affair with Gwen’s husband. When she performed Gwen’s breast augmentation…” I pause so they can all take a moment to check out Gwen’s boobs. They do, and continue staring at them until she finally crosses her arms over her chest. Then I say, “Phyllis placed a small ceramic device behind one of Gwen’s implants. This device can kill Connor Payne, and he knows it. Which puts Gwen’s life in danger, which means if she files a lawsuit, you’re out of business.”
I press a button on my cell phone. When Jeff answers, I ask, “How’s the patient?”
“Sleeping.”
“Tie him down and bring me Gwen’s body scan.”
Moments later I hold up the body scan we took of Gwen when she entered the security cubicle. Sure enough, behind her right boob, the device is visible.
“Hey!” Gwen says. “That was a dirty trick, telling me I was going through security.”
I shrug. “It gets worse. This morning a bomb went off on Trace Street.”
“That’s common knowledge,” George says.
“It’s all you see on the news,” William adds. “Apparently a suicide bomber was heading toward the convention center when her vest exploded.”
“Her vest?” I say. “I don’t recall the police releasing that information.”
William looks down. Mary walks over to him and stands there until he looks up. When he does, she slaps his face.
“We’re through!” she says, and makes a move for the door. I wonder if anyone knew before today that William and Mary were having an affair.
I put my arm out to stop her, and say, “Stay put, Mary. We’re all family here. This room may not be soundproof…”
I wink at Gwen.
She gives me the finger.
“…But it’s safe for conversations.”
Mary reclaims her seat.
“You folks have been breaking the law,” I say. “You’re dealing with terrorists.”
“That’s ridiculous,” William says.
“You’re selling chips that can be detonated by remote control. The woman on Trace Street walked into a lamp post, fell on her ass, and her head blew up. Tell me that’s not an explosive chip manufactured by your company that was placed in her brain.”
I give George a hard look and start moving toward him.
He says, “The chip was sewn into her mouth.”
Everyone turns to look at George. He says, “These chips are like blasting caps. We manufactured hundreds of them for the government, but they canceled the contract. I sold them to an arms dealer for two million dollars.”
“What was the government planning to use them for?”
“I have no idea.”
“How do you know the device was in her mouth?”
“The arms dealer called me to complain about the size of the explosion.”
“What do you mean?”
“I may have given them the impression the chips could take down a building.”
“They would have demanded a test.”
“We blew up a car.”
“How’s that possible?”
“The test was rigged.”
“You’re joking.”
“I tossed a chip into a car and detonated it. But the seats were filled with plastic explosives.”
“You’re dumb enough to cheat an arms dealer?”
“We were desperate. Our company was about to go broke. We needed the cash infusion.”
“Why was the woman’s chest wired with explosives?”
“They were testing the chip, but wanted a backup to destroy the evidence in case it didn’t work. They picked an illegal alien, threatened to kill her children, sewed the chip in her mouth, and sent her for a walk. When she got to Trace Street, she was crying so hard she walked into a post and fell down. She refused to get up, so they detonated the chip, surveyed the damage, and blew up the evidence. If this information goes public, we’ll all wind up in prison.”
William says, “We didn’t intend the chips to be used by terrorists. But it happened, and now you know. So what is it you want?”
“I want Gwen on the board and her shares reinstated.”
“That’s preposterous!” William says, “It’s common knowledge Mrs. Peters is a former stripper. The stockholders would never approve such a move.”
“You think they’d rather be represented by terrorist sympathizers?”
He sighs. “What else do you want?”
I look at Gwen. “If you could run any kind of business in the world, what would it be?”
She thinks a moment. Then says, “I’d like to design and sell t-shirts.”
“There you have it,” I say. “Gwen’s going to introduce a line of t-shirts.”
“You’re insane!” William says.
“You think she could possibly piss away more money with a t-shirt venture than you’ve lost with your business plan?”
“That’s not the point. We’re not in clothing. We’re an electronics company.”
“How about electronic t-shirts?” Gwen says.
“How about that!” I say, beaming at her. “She’s already created a tie-in!”
Gwen beams back.
“I want something too,” I say.
“Of course you do,” William says. “What?”
“An introduction to your arms dealer.”
“Why?”
“I’m going to eliminate this terror cell.”
“I want something else,” Gwen says. “An assistant. And maybe a private secretary!”
“Then you shall have one,” I say. “Right, Mr. Wadsworth?”
“The inmates are running the asylum,” he says.
11.
Ten Days Earlier…
Maybe Taylor.
“ARE YOU KIDDING me?”
“It’s the next logical step,” Dr. Scott says.
They’re in the bookcase-lined office Dr. Scott uses for their intimate discussions. Maybe has no idea how many rooms are in Dr. Scott’s building, but she’s seen three, which is probably half of them. What she’s never seen is a secretary or any other employee. That’s because Dr. Scott stopped accepting new patients shortly afte
r scheduling Maybe. Truth is, she was lucky to get in. Between the lobby and this room, Dr. Scott has a workspace where he handled all their early-stage interviews.
Maybe and Dr. Scott are clearly past that stage today.
She studies the tray of dildos arranged vertically on the cabinet beside her recliner. There are six in all, ranging from tiny to enormous. Each is a different color. The smallest is the length and shape of a tampon, but half the diameter. That one’s yellow. Next size up is tampon-sized and light blue. Next is green, then pink, then red. The cucumber is purple. A small tube of sexual lubricant completes the display.
Maybe frowns.
Dr. Scott says, “What’s going through your mind right now?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“I need to know. If we’re to make progress here.”
“What’s going through my mind is I’m wondering if you really think I’m going to let you shove these disgusting things into me.”
“I normally let the patient introduce the devices as it suits her.”
“And what if it doesn’t suit me at all?”
“That’s always a matter of your choice. But as we’ve discussed—”
“I know what we’ve discussed. We’ve discussed it endlessly! And now that we’ve spent an hour a day for six weeks talking about the physical and mental implications of vaginismus, you’ve somehow come to the conclusion today’s the day I’m supposed to spread my legs and give you a vertical smile?”
“It’s not a matter of exposing yourself. It’s a matter of taking the next logical step forward in your treatment.”
“So now we enter phase two,” Maybe says.
“If you wish to call it that, I won’t quibble.”
“I’d call it the rape phase.”
Dr. Scott sighs. “Let’s take a step back to consider the effect the mere presence of these devices is having on you.”
“Yeah, let’s do that,” Maybe says. “What if I brought out the same tray and told you to shove them up your ass while I watch?”
“There would be no purpose served by that exercise.”
Maybe stares at the purple dildo and comes to the conclusion it’s actually larger than it first appeared, if such could be possible.
“You must treat farm animals,” she says.
“What draws you to that conclusion?”
Maybe points to the tray. “Mr. Purple.”
Dr. Scott follows her gaze. “Perhaps I should remind you how babies enter the world.”
“Don’t waste your breath. I can’t get a tampon inside me, let alone a penis. So you can put Mr. Purple back in the sack with the rest of your baseball gear.”
“Mr. Purple, as you call the device, is simply here to give you a visual perspective of what’s possible. It also serves the purpose of showing you how small our goal is for today.”
“And what is the goal for today?”
“We’ll introduce the smallest device today, and introduce it repeatedly, until we’re completely comfortable. Tomorrow we’ll continue working with it. Eventually, we’ll work our way up to the larger sizes.”
“I notice you’re saying ‘we.’”
“Yes, of course. I’m your doctor. We’re achieving this goal together.”
“Your part sounds awfully damn easy.”
“In what way?”
“You get paid two hundred dollars an hour to watch me play with myself.”
Dr. Scott frowns.
Maybe says, “I assume you intend to watch?”
“As we’ve discussed numerous times, I’m not a voyeur. I need to observe what happens to you physically in order to judge your reaction emotionally. We don’t have to do this today, if you’d rather not. But if not now, when?”
They go back and forth like this for ten minutes before Dr. Scott brings her two gowns.
“What’s the second one for?” she asks.
“To place beneath you on the recliner.”
“Do I have to take my top off?”
“No. I’ll leave the room while you get undressed.”
“Just turn your head.”
He does.
As she disrobes from the waist down, she says, “This is bullshit.”
“How so?”
“There’s no benefit to the gown. The whole point is for you to stare at my vagina while I try to insert the yellow dildo.”
Maybe first heard of vaginismus six months ago, when she finally sat down with her OBGYN for a heart-to-heart. It took her another six weeks to get up the courage to talk to a specialist about it. According to Dr. Scott, vaginismus is a reflex of the PC muscle that causes the vagina to suddenly tense, making any type of vaginal penetration painful or impossible. It’s a condition that prevents Maybe from having any type of vaginal penetration, including inserting a tampon, receiving a gynecological exam, and of course, having sexual intercourse. Nothing enters the V.
Wasn’t always that way.
That’s what makes it so frustrating. Two years ago Maybe had no problems with this. She was able to use tampons, receive proper exams, enjoy sex a time or two—was in all respects going through life happy as a bearded clam. But then something happened. Something psychological, according to Maybe’s OBGYN.
Dr. Scott spent six weeks testing that theory, during which time Maybe has made exactly no progress on her own while playing the home version of the game. Now it’s time to test the physiological response in a clinical atmosphere. According to Dr. Scott, Maybe isn’t shutting her vaginal doors on purpose. The vaginismic affect is similar to the way your eyes involuntarily close when you sneeze, or when an object comes flying toward them. The degree of pain varies from one patient to the next when penetration is attempted, but Maybe’s pain is intolerable.
“You can turn around now,” she tells him.
He turns and scoots his chair closer and takes a position directly in front of her.
Maybe says, “What, no table and stirrups?”
“In my experience, the recliner is comfortable, and far less clinical. Our objective is to improve your everyday life, not condition you solely to accept gynecological examinations.”
Maybe takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and slowly lifts her gown. She remains that way for half a minute, feeling the tears spilling from the corners of her eyes. She slowly separates her legs until her ankles are three feet apart. She opens her eyes and sees Dr. Scott staring at her private area.
Which causes her tears to flow twice as hard.
He hands her the yellow dildo.
“Do you have any idea how embarrassing this is for me?” Maybe says.
“I do.” he says.
“Do you?”
12.
Present Day…
Donovan Creed.
“THIS BETTER BE good,” Callie says, when I show her the device that had been resting comfortably behind Gwen’s boob two hours ago.
Gwen doesn’t look at me before speaking. We’ve already made a pact. She’ll assume full responsibility for the surgery if I don’t tell Callie what happened between us in the hallway.
“Donovan took me to meet Dr. P.,” Gwen says, “and he did a scan.”
“Dr. Pee?” Callie says, looking at me.
“Dr. Petrovsky,” I say. “The surgeon who reconstructed my face.”
She looks at Gwen. “And that didn’t concern you?”
Gwen giggles. “Donovan is gorgeous. You’ve said so yourself!”
I look at Callie. “You said that?”
“She’s delusional. Must be the pain meds.” To Gwen she said, “I thought we had an understanding about the boob job.”
“You said I needed to do it. You just told me not to let Donovan bully me into it. And he didn’t. When Dr. P. saw the scan, he said it would only take ten minutes to remove.”
“And aesthetically?”
She looks at me.
I shrug. “How would I know?”
She looks back at Gwen. “Show me.”
; “Well, there’s a bandage, but Dr. P. said in twelve weeks you won’t be able to tell the difference.”
“Twelve weeks?”
Callie looks at me.
“The recovery is only two weeks,” I say. “Gwen’s referring to the scar.”
“Under my boob,” Gwen says. Then winks. “Don’t worry, sugar snatch. It’ll be fine.”
“Sugar snatch?” I say.
Callie’s eyes blaze. “I ought to kill you both.”
“Why me?” I say.
“For going behind my back on this.”
“Why her?”
“For her big, fucking mouth.”
Gwen’s face falls. “I’m sorry,” Gwen says.
“You should be. I wouldn’t repeat anything you say to me in private. Nor would I cheapen our relationship by revealing our pet names. You don’t deserve me. Move into some attic with him, if that’s all our relationship means to you.”
Gwen starts crying.
Callie watches her a minute, then looks at me. She shakes her head. “Females.”
“You’re preaching to the choir,” I say. Then add, “Don’t be too hard on her. This procedure didn’t just save my life. It might’ve saved Gwen’s, too.”
Callie’s anger fades the slightest bit. “What do you mean?”
“According to Dr. P., an object like this, placed where it was, receiving electronic signals—could have had a lethal effect on Gwen’s heart. Not to mention it significantly increased her chances of developing breast cancer.”
Callie says, “I wish Phyllis Willis was still alive.”
“What would you do to her?”
“Very bad things.”
She looks at Gwen and sighs. “Men are so much easier.”
“Especially us gorgeous ones,” I say.
Callie gives me a look I’ve seen before. Staring into her eyes, I can literally see the light draining out of them. All emotion has left her face. She’s completely detached. It’s amazing how the most beautiful creature in the world can look so devoid of human warmth. This is Callie’s death face. It’s how she looks when people are about to die.
When she speaks, her tone is flat. “The day our friendship ends?” she says.
“I know.”
