Donovan Creed 11 - Because We Can!

by John Locke

  “Give me odds.”

  He looks at Jack. “Are any of them chained to the corners of the basement?”

  Jack shakes his head, no.

  Joe says, “Then the odds are pretty much zero.”

  I nod. “Sorry Jack. I’ve got a country to save.”

  Jill says, “That’s not good enough. I won’t have innocent deaths on my conscience.”

  She looks at Frank and says, “You need to talk to him.”

  I hold up my hand. “Save your breath, Frank. Jill, I’ll remind you the only reason I’m killing Bobby is because that was part of our deal.”

  “Well, saving the prisoners is our new deal.”

  Frank shuts his eyes. He doesn’t believe the shit that comes out of Jill’s mouth any more than I do.

  Joe Penny’s sitting closer to the limo driver than me, so I say, “Tell our driver to make a circle around the block and ignore whatever happens. And ask him to raise the privacy panel.”

  Joe tells him what I said.

  When the panel’s up and the car’s moving, I say, “Jill, look at me. I don’t have to kill your husband. I’m perfectly willing to force your cooperation.”

  Jack starts to puff up like he’s going to get physical, but his intentions are interrupted by a wheezing attack.

  “You’re bleeding,” I say, pointing at his thigh.

  Jill says, “I won’t cooperate if you allow the prisoners to die.” She gives me a look of defiance. “Hit me all you want, but it won’t make me change my mind.”

  My first strike crushes Frank’s Adam’s apple. I had intended to simply slap Jill’s face hard enough to show her I’m serious about saving my country, but Frank saw it coming and started to make a move. He’s a good man, extremely capable with his fists, so I couldn’t afford to let him follow through with his attack. I don’t know how Jill flipped him against me so quickly, but like I say, he’s a tough guy, and a big one, as well. He shakes off the pain and swings for the fences, but as he does, I’ve got my hand against his chest, pushing him back, so his punch falls short of the mark. I come back at him with a palm strike that shatters his nose.

  There’s nothing I hate more than losing a good man, so I apologize to Frank and say, “I hope she at least let you fuck her.”

  He tries to mount another attack and I hit him as flush and hard as I ever hit a man, and I can practically hear the blood filling his brain pan.

  Jill’s scream pierces my ears.

  She didn’t wait till Frank was dying to scream, it’s just that Frank was dying before she had time to get the scream out. I go ahead and give Jill the hard slap she earned earlier. While her head goes flying backward, I backhand Jack, who stopped coughing long enough to attempt an assault of his own. I watch Jill’s head slam against the wall of the limo and wonder how she feels about that.

  Turns out she feels woozy.

  Her head caroms off the window and nearly falls into Joe Penny’s lap.

  I survey the situation. Joe’s horrified, Frank’s dying, Jack’s out cold, and Jill’s trying to scratch my eyes out.

  I sigh.

  Who the hell are these people?

  When under attack, I have the ability to see things in slow motion. Jill’s tougher than I expected. She’s coming at me with both hands, trying to slash my face. If she gets close enough she’ll try to bite me. I consider grabbing both her hands and crushing them, but as I think on it, a part of me respects her for caring so much about the prisoners in Bobby’s basement, so I decide to let her retain the use of her hands. At least for now.

  I know what you’re thinking.

  I’m going soft, right?

  I slap Jill’s hands away and catch her in the temple with my fist, taking enough off the punch to keep from killing her, while keeping enough in it to knock her out for a full minute.

  Frank’s dying slowly, suffering.

  I hate that.

  This would be the perfect time to smash his nose bone into his brain and kill him instantly, like the martial arts guys do in the movies. But I can’t do that, because it’s a complete myth. The nose isn’t made of bone, it’s cartilage. And even if it were bone, it wouldn’t be strong enough, or long enough, or sharp enough, to penetrate the skull and enter the brain.

  Frank’s dying from internal hemorrhaging. If we went to a hospital immediately we could save his life and possibly prevent permanent brain damage. But that’s out of the question. I can’t allow a dangerous guy like Frank to live after he’s turned on me. I give him another hard smack on the temple, but my heart’s not in it.

  By the time Jill regains consciousness, we’ve circled the block and parked again, and I’ve secured her wrists and ankles with plastic zip ties.

  It takes her a moment to focus, and when she does she yells, “Frank!”

  “Don’t think for a moment I won’t kill you,” I say.

  She screams.

  Jack wakes up. He’d come at me if he could, but I’ve secured his wrists and ankles, too.

  Jill screams a second time, so I try Callie’s move of squeezing her throat with my thumb and forefinger to squelch it.

  That doesn’t work, so I slap her again.

  I think about how easily Callie stifled Abbey’s scream in the tent this morning. But all I managed to do was piss Jill off. Maybe it’s technique. Or maybe my hands are too big.

  Now she’s crying, and I think I liked her better when she was screaming.

  I watch her with interest, and come to the conclusion Sheriff Cox was right: Jill’s a fine looking woman. I’d peg her age at 30, and give her face and body a nine. The crying adds an air of vulnerability she probably doesn’t deserve, based on how she’s treated Jack since he got out of jail. But she’s got something going for her. Remember, this is a woman who got Jack’s house, money, and credit cards, and turned Frank against me in a matter of minutes.

  Her clothes are a mess, but I can overlook that. I like the way her jeans cling to her legs. At the moment, her legs are splayed, the view enticing. Picture Callie’s leggings from earlier today, except that Jill’s sitting down which enhances the camel toe. I probably shouldn’t stare at her crotch like this. It makes me just as bad as the Willow Lake police force, but what can I say? It’s, you know, right there.

  If I wasn’t in love with Callie I’d be all over Jill. I’d try to hit that triangle a time or two.

  But you’re right. I’ve gone soft. I can’t cheat on Callie.

  Not that Jill’s offering.

  Frank’s death, plus the latest slap I gave her seems to have finally made an impression on her attitude. She’s still crying, but it’s muffled. Jack’s hissing at me like a stuttering snake, and hissing at her the same way. I assume he’s mad at me and trying to comfort her, but it all sounds the same, and she’s not happy with him anyway. In fact, I bet she regrets asking me to save Jack. I’m almost certain she would have run off with Frank.

  I get my cell phone out and call the sketch artist and learn she’s been waiting at the police station. Then I realize I can’t put her in the car with a dead guy, so I cancel her and call my geeks and tell Curly to arrange for a sketch artist to meet me in New Orleans, at the Rose Dumont Hotel. I ask if he and the others have had any luck finding Ryan Decker.

  “We’ve found hundreds of Ryan Deckers,” he says. “But that’s probably not his real name. We need that police sketch. If it’s good enough we can run it through law enforcement, social media, and motor vehicles.”

  “I’m working on it,” I say.

  We dump Frank’s body outside Carville, in a rice field that’s been converted to a crawfish farm. Then we ride past Bobby Dee’s house in La Pierre, so Joe can get a good look at what he’ll be blowing up, assuming Jill still wants to go through with the plan.

  I say, “We can’t guarantee the prisoners will live, so I’ll let you make the call. I’m willing to blow Bobby and his men up tonight if you want, or we can forget about it. Either way, you’re going to cooperate with the
sketch artist when we get to New Orleans.”

  She and Jack exchange a look.

  He nods.

  She says, “We want you to kill Bobby.”

  “Maybe some of the prisoners will get lucky and survive,” I say, cheerfully.

  My phone rings. It’s C.H., the elf, calling me with bad news. After hearing the details I look at Jill and say, “I should have beaten that sketch out of you the moment we met.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Terrorist attack.”

  Jill knows I’m on edge. She’s frightened. Defensive. Says, “You can’t just assume Decker’s responsible for every terrorist attack that takes place.”

  I tell her to shut the fuck up. Then I call Callie.

  16.

  “WHAT’S UP?” CALLIE says.

  “Please tell me you’re not in Central Park.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Thank God!”

  “Why? What’s happened?”

  “Decker.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “The Willow Lake bomber. Ryan Decker, self-proclaimed urban terrorist.”

  “Shit. What’s he done? If he’d set off a bomb in Central Park, I would’ve heard it.”

  “Different strategy this time. About 30 minutes ago, scores of college-age men swarmed a section of Central Park.”

  “What do you mean, ‘swarmed’?”

  “They attacked several cops and dozens of citizens. Sprayed some sort of aerosol into their faces to disorient them, and knocked them out. Then they pulled their pants down and wrote BWC on their asses.”

  “That’s insane! Was anyone hurt?”

  “Not that we’ve heard.”

  “Then what’s the point?”

  “I have no idea.”

  I give Callie a minute to think on it. While waiting, I look out the window and spot a sign covered in bird shit that says New Orleans: 18 miles. I can’t get that damn sketch fast enough.

  Callie says, “What’s his fascination with asses, do you suppose?”

  “Humiliation. If you don’t want to physically hurt someone, pulling their pants down in public is about as humiliating as it gets. Especially for a cop.”

  Callie says, “They’re doing it to prove they can.”

  “I agree. And by including cops, they’re sending the message they can do whatever they want whenever they want. For the moment, this is what they want. But later on?”

  “I’m trying to picture it.”

  “Which part?”

  “Cops lying on the ground, pants around their ankles, messages written on their asses. This might look like a prank, but it’s not.”

  “The media will treat it like a wilding, and the late-night comics will have a field day, but you’re right, this is serious. I’ve never been more concerned about a threat in my entire life.”

  “What is the threat, exactly?”

  “That it could catch on. That BWC could wind up being the rallying cry for street thugs, street gangs, nerds, loner-stoners, and every terrorist wannabe in the country. If Decker’s group can humiliate cops in broad daylight they can humiliate anyone. Judges. CEO’s. Nuns. If they can penetrate the security of Central Park, every ass in Congress could be penetrated.”

  “Please tell me that last part was an attempt at political humor.”

  “It was.”

  “Well, don’t give up your day job.”

  “Okay. On a serious note, what happened in Central Park was an organized, controlled swarm. You know those flash mobs that suddenly show up and start dancing in public places? This was like that.”

  “But if they’re not hurting anyone, what are they after?”

  “They’re getting our attention. My attention, to be precise.”

  “Yours?”

  “Police found a small portion of a dime novel today, lying beside one of the victims. It’s titled, Emmett Love: Hero of the Western Plains.”

  “So?”

  “You remember Rose? The witchy nurse that helped Doctor Box with your operation?”

  “Of course.”

  “She told me I’m Emmett Love’s direct descendent.”

  “Tell me again who Emmett Love was?”

  “Original sheriff of Dodge City. Before Wyatt Earp and all the others.”

  “Maybe it’s a coincidence.”

  “I don’t think so. Attached to the cover was a note addressed to Donovan Creed, Agency Director, Sensory Resources. No signature on the note, just the words: Because We Can!”

  “This guy Decker must be connected to you somehow. Did they catch any of the college kids who were involved?”

  “No. They limited their activity to a specific area of the park, and sprayed everyone in it. Then scattered before anyone regained consciousness.”

  “Then how does anyone know what happened? I can’t imagine the victims could provide this much information.”

  “It’s all over the Internet, Callie. Every victim was photographed and videoed.”

  “By whom?”

  “The flash mob. Wait. I’m getting a call. Can you hang on a sec?”

  “Of course. Who’s calling?”

  “Kathleen. Maybe she saw something.”

  “Gosh, I hope she wasn’t one of the victims,” Callie says. “Or Addie.”

  “Hang on, I’ll let you know.”

  I take Kathleen’s call, then click back to Callie, who asks if everything’s all right.

  “They’re fine. She and Addie weren’t there. She hasn’t heard anything about it.”

  “What did she want?”

  “I don’t know, but she’s been acting weird as hell today. She called earlier to tell me not to call her again. Yet here she is, calling me. She said she needed to tell me something.”

  “Any idea what?”

  “Nope. Just that it’s urgent.”

  “And you replied?”

  I told her I was in the middle of a terrorist attack, and said whatever she wanted to tell me would have to wait till I get back to town.”

  “You’ve got a lot on your plate. I’m glad she understood.”

  “I won’t call her back if you don’t want me to.”

  “I don’t mind. But I do want it to end.”

  “I’ll make that very clear.”

  “How about you call her tomorrow night, after you get back, and put her on speaker, so I can hear you end things once and for all.”

  “No problem.”

  “Thanks, Donovan. By the way, I keep checking my phone for that police sketch. What’s the holdup?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  She pauses. “Should I be worried?”

  “About what?”

  “Jill Whittaker. Or DiPiese, or whatever she’s calling herself today.”

  “What are you saying, exactly?”

  “Is she as pretty as Sheriff Cox said?”

  “Don’t give her a second thought. Or Kathleen. Or anyone else.”

  “Okay. I trust you.”

  We hang up, and I notice the car’s not moving. The driver informs me we’re 16 miles out of New Orleans, stuck in a major traffic jam. There’s been a wreck. We’re going to be sitting here a while.

  “How long’s a while?”

  “At least an hour. Both lanes are blocked. There’s zero movement. Metro traffic says they’ve got to clear a semi, but it’s on the bridge.”

  “Fuck!”

  “Sorry.”

  I want that sketch. But I’m stuck here, fuming.

  Jill’s staring at me, and all I can think is if I hadn’t put up with her bullshit I might have been able to avoid this Central Park disaster. I reach over and give her face a hard slap.

  And now her gorgeous legs are the last thing on my mind.

  17.

  I’M FURIOUS WITH her. But every time Jack looks away, Jill gives me a look that’s hard to ignore.

  If I didn’t know better, I’d swear she’s coming on to me.

  But I do know better. She ca
n’t possibly be interested in me. I killed Frank Sturgiss, slapped the shit out of her, and refused to save the prisoners in the basement of her house in La Pierre.

  Nevertheless, she says, “Can I talk to you in private?”

  Jack spins his head around and starts hissing fit to bust.

  “What do you have in mind?”

  Jill says, “Can Joe and the driver go for a short walk?”

  “What about Jack?”

  “I’d like him to stay for the first part.”

  I tell Joe and the driver to walk a short distance, but keep the car in sight. When they leave, Jill says, “I wasn’t sure about you at first. But now I am.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She sighs. “This is a little embarrassing for me, but my life has been going at warp speed, and I’m not sure what’s going to happen when we get to New Orleans. What I’m trying to say, I’m into you.”

  Jack’s eyes grow wide. He thrashes about, trying to break free from his bonds. He’s furious, hissing louder than Elvis fans at a gay parade.

  “Oh, shut up, Jack!” she says. “Do you have any idea how annoying that is?”

  She looks at me. “Can you cut me loose?”

  I cut her zip ties with my pocket knife. She rubs her wrists and says, “I appreciate what you did to help Jack. He’s had a rough time.”

  Hearing this, Jack quiets down. Jill says, “He lost his voice, his dream house, his money…and judging from the blood on his clothes, he’s going to need serious medical care for those hog bites.”

  I’m not sure where she’s going with all this talk about Jack, so I just say, “You’re welcome.”

  She says, “I don’t want you to blow up Bobby’s house. Can you just kill him?”

  “What about his goons?”

  “That would be a bonus, if you can do it without killing the prisoners. But if not, the goons will clear out when Bobby’s dead. And I’ll inherit the house.”

  Jack seems to like what he’s hearing. He nods his head enthusiastically.

  I say, “You could live in that house? After what happened in the basement?”

  “No, of course not! But I’d like to sell it.”

  “That’s taking a practical view.”

  She stares at Jack a minute, then turns to me and says, “Jack and I were never a couple.”