Donovan Creed 11 - Because We Can!

by John Locke

  “At the time they said that, yes. But not now. Brain death diagnosis is virtually never wrong.”

  “Virtually never? So it has happened before?”

  “I shouldn’t have said that. I’ve given you hope. And there is none.”

  “There’s always hope. And I expect you at Sensory Resources, prepped and ready, when she gets there.”

  “Prepped for what?”

  “Whatever you guys do. You’re going to find a way to restore my daughter’s brain function.”

  “It’s impossible.”

  “You think I’m fucking with you? If I have to come there and drag your ass to Sensory I can guarantee you’ll regret it.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. I can be there in what, two hours? When is she expected to arrive?”

  I take a deep breath. “I don’t know. Three hours, give or take.”

  “I’ll be there when she arrives, and I’ll do all I can. But please don’t kill me. I’ve finally gotten my life on track.”

  “You’re completely without hope?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  “I need you to believe.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  We’re quiet a minute. He says, “Where is she now?”

  “Mercy Hospital, Louisville, Kentucky.”

  “Can I ask why you don’t want me to go there?”

  “No one can know who she is. They can’t know we’re related.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t focus on that part. Just tell me how they can know for sure she’s brain dead. Doctors are human, they make mistakes. Kimberly was practically conscious a few hours ago.”

  “A number of criteria have to be met before the pronouncement of brain death can be made. She’d have to be in a permanent coma. They’d require proof all brainstem reflexes have ceased, and proof her breathing has permanently stopped. They would have ruled out other conditions, like extremely low body temperature, or drug or alcohol use.”

  “When she gets to Virginia, what will you do?”

  “Your doctors are more qualified for this than me, but if you wish I’ll instruct them to confirm the diagnosis with a lab test. But please don’t get your hopes up.”

  “If you’re convinced she’s brain dead, what happens next?”

  “You need to know it’s highly unlikely her body will be functioning upon landing.”

  “What are the chances?”

  “Less than five percent.”

  “I’ll take it. I want her at my facility, where I can give her the best care in the world. And grieve, if we come up short.”

  “When she gets here, if she’s alive, we’ll perform the final test. If they say she’s brain dead you may still be able to harvest her organs. If not, we’d give you time to say goodbye before shutting down the ventilator and other support machines.”

  “Do your best.”

  “Count on it.”

  One Year Later…

  1.

  Donovan Creed.

  YOU’RE NOT GOING to believe this, but I built a house.

  I’m serious.

  I know it’s the last thing you’d expect from me.

  It’s secluded as hell, more like a fortress, and has all sorts of nooks and crannies and secret rooms and escape tunnels and so forth.

  It’s not a huge house, but when you add up all the features, it’s the most expensive private residence ever built.

  You probably realize I couldn’t have built it in the space of a year.

  You’re right.

  I’ve been working on my dream house for years. I started construction after stealing billions from Sam Case. I originally planned to live here with Sam’s wife, Rachel, but at this point that’s about as likely as Callie falling in love with Jake from State Farm.

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a complete homebody. I still break into people’s houses, still occupy their attics. In fact, my home-away-from-home attics have grown to more than 20 cities in thirteen states.

  But I only use them when fulfilling hits for the mob.

  I quit my job with Sensory Resources, and yes, I miss working with the geeks more than you could imagine. But we stay in touch.

  I also quit killing people, but as you can imagine, that didn’t last. For years I convinced myself I was killing people who deserved it, and felt I was filling a hole in the justice system, making the world a better, safer place, and so forth, and maybe all those things are true. But the bottom line is I’m just like Callie.

  We killed people because we’re killers.

  Are we the best in the world?

  I honestly don’t know. But we’re the best we’ve met so far.

  Callie and I are still working together, still killing people, but our romantic relationship ended the day I learned she killed Kathleen. Breaking up was definitely the right thing to do. As killers, we enhance each other’s skills, but as a couple, we’re poisonous. We bring out the worst in each other. I won’t go into further detail. You get the point.

  I will tell you what happened with Decker, though, because it’s un-fucking-believable.

  2.

  DECKER’S ATTACK ON the Gamble County Art Fair wound up killing 4,615 people. It’s the single worst terrorist act ever perpetrated on the American people.

  And he nearly committed a worse one.

  Thank God the Coast Guard began searching the boats on the Ohio River last year during Thunder over Louisville, because minutes after the search began, two speedboats tried to escape. They were confronted by the Coast Guard vessel the president positioned east of the festivities. A shootout ensued, and a number of liquored up Kentucky heroes saved the day.

  Scores of boaters were already thoroughly pissed, having been denied the opportunity to travel downtown to watch the fireworks. When they saw two speedboats exchanging fire with the Coast Guard, they rightly assumed these speedboats were the cause of all their problems. What they lacked in firearms, they made up for with courage. While the speedboat drivers attempted to evade the Coast Guard, a dozen motorboats rammed into them at full speed, knocking the shooters unconscious or overboard. The angry rednecks boarded the speedboats like ants on a Ding Dong and beat Decker’s men half to death.

  By the time the Coast Guard managed to calm everyone down and remove the randy rednecks from the speedboats, they discovered eight rocket launchers and sixteen missiles hidden in the holds. A short interrogation confirmed these were the same men that bombed the local neighborhood. Had 16 missiles been launched during the fireworks celebration, as planned, government experts estimate the body count could have exceeded 10,000.

  Score one for the good guys.

  In return for a reduced sentence, the eight members of Decker’s bomb squad flipped on the rest of the bunch, and details began to emerge about the makeup of Decker’s organization. As it turns out, Decker hired nearly 200 college-aged men and women to prank park guests and police at Central Park and Jackson Square. They did it for the fun, the fame, and a thousand bucks. I’ve already done the math for you: It cost Decker roughly $200,000 to write BWC on approximately 70 asses. That’s nearly $3,000 per ass.

  The cops arrested dozens of the kids, charged them with criminal mischief, sentenced them to probation and community service.

  At least 90% of Decker’s gang were arrested, including all the bombers. The Louisville group got life without the possibility of parole, and the Jackson bombers were sent to death row.

  Both groups are appealing, and it’ll take years before it’s all sorted out. I’m not worried about justice being done. If the courts set them free, Callie and I will hunt them down. We’ve got names, photos, and addresses of all their family members.

  Decker’s the reason I retired.

  Because—you may not believe this—the government caved in and paid him. Not the billion he asked for, but $100 million. Sherm Phillips was actually proud he settled with Decker for “ten cents on the dollar.” With his entire gang off the payroll, Decker m
ust have also been pleased with the number.

  I’m livid about it.

  Despite the fact his drones were damaged beyond his ability to repair them, despite the fact his swarm idea didn’t work, despite the fact all his lieutenants were captured—the government felt it necessary to pay Decker to stop his attacks.

  And they paid him with your tax dollars.

  They fucking paid him!

  It gets worse.

  They also hired him as an anti-terrorist consultant!

  This information is highly classified, and it goes without saying you’re not supposed to know, so don’t rat me out. I just felt you deserved to know what really goes on behind the closed doors in Washington.

  I know what you’re thinking: Decker died in a firefight with the FBI. You know this because you saw the footage on the evening news a thousand times and read the story in every newspaper and magazine and every social media platform on earth.

  But it isn’t true.

  They faked his death, gave him a new face and identity, and now he’s the safest man on the planet, because they think he’s too valuable to kill.

  Of course, when I heard all this I hit the ceiling. The CIA was so concerned about my reaction they lobbied the president to let them hunt me down and kill me. But no one on earth fears me like our president, so he gave me the same deal: $100 million dollars and a consulting contract to tell them all the different ways I could orchestrate successful terrorist attacks on the nation. Every month I send them a scenario that scares the shit out of them, and I suppose Decker does the same.

  I know what you’re thinking: I’m no better than Decker, profiting from this situation at your expense. But I didn’t ask for the money, didn’t offer my services as a consultant, never threatened the country, never attacked it, and never would. But taking the contract and the money prevents the CIA from killing me, same as I’m prevented from killing Decker. It may not be right, but it’s how the world works.

  Am I happy?

  I do my best.

  I’m not in a relationship, but I’m dating someone.

  It’s more of a sexual relationship. You’re shocked, right?

  I’ll tell you about it after dinner.

  But first you’ll want to hear about Jack and Jill.

  3.

  JILL ALWAYS HAD a soft spot for Jack, and when she heard he’d lost his leg in a gun fight she insisted on visiting him in the hospital to check on him. Jill didn’t know what Callie looked like, so she had no reason to suspect Callie was posing as one of Jack’s nurses, or that she had bugged Jack’s room and was listening to Jill’s conversation.

  Jill told Jack she was leaving New Orleans in a couple of hours to be with Decker. After wishing Jack a speedy recovery and saying goodbye, she took a cab to the airport and boarded a private plane. A quick flash of credentials gave Callie the plane’s itinerary. She called to tell me Jill was flying to Salina, Kansas, to meet Decker. I took the call while standing at Kimberly’s bedside at Sensory Medical, and forwarded the information to Sherm Phillips. Then I asked Callie to join me at Sensory. I wanted my best friend to be there when I said goodbye to my daughter.

  Sherm contacted the FBI, and they arrived quickly enough to set up positions around the private airfield where Jill’s plane was landing. Unfortunately, Decker must’ve sniffed them out, because he never showed. While waiting for Jill’s plane to land, FBI agents discovered Bobby DiPiese’s body in one of the hangars. When Jill’s plane touched down, they arrested her. She’s currently awaiting trial for aiding and abetting a known terrorist, providing false evidence to the police, conspiracy to commit murder, and assorted other charges.

  She’s expected to get life, but I guarantee she won’t serve more than a month, because Decker’s been pressing the government to release her. He worked a deal based on exposing some of the international terrorists he knows, and the government’s just waiting for her trial to end. They’ll put her in prison, fake her death, give her a new identity, new face, and she and Decker will live happily ever after.

  Onward.

  What else do you want to hear about?

  I know.

  Milo and Faith.

  Good story. What happened was—

  Wait. I just noticed the time. I’ve got a dinner guest.

  A young lady.

  Same one I meet every Thursday for dinner.

  Let me enjoy this dinner date first, then I’ll tell you all about Milo, and Faith, and about the sexual relationship I’ve been experiencing.

  4.

  THE DOOR OPENS. We hug, and I hold her a few extra seconds.

  We walk to the den, I pour her a drink. She says, “How have you been, Daddy?”

  I smile.

  “Good. How’s work?”

  “Boring as hell.”

  I laugh. “You say that every week.”

  She shows me a pouty expression. “It’s not fair. You and Callie go on missions all the time. You said it yourself, I’m one of the best you ever worked with.”

  I say what I always say: “We’ve been through this before. You beat the odds. You’re one of only three people in the history of modern medicine who came back after being pronounced brain dead. I can’t bear to lose you again.”

  “But I need a life!”

  “That’s exactly right. And you’ve got one. And when you meet the right guy….”

  She rolls her eyes. “Daddy?”

  I look at her.

  “You know I love you,” she says.

  “But?”

  “There’s something we need to talk about.”

  I frown. “I know what you’re going to say.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Positive. But do me a favor and wait till after dinner, okay?”

  She sighs. “Fine. But we’re having this discussion.”

  “Okay.”

  “Tonight.”

  “We will. I promise.”

  5.

  I HAVE TWO sets of cooks and housekeepers, but they don’t live in the main house.

  They work alternating weeks and while working, they live in subterranean wings of my house. While I’m a great boss, I require my employees to adhere to a strict set of rules. They’re forbidden to speak about me, or the house, or any person who visits me, or anything that takes place inside the home, or on the grounds. During the weeks they’re here, they’re forbidden to leave their rooms for any reason unless I summon them.

  Any reason.

  If you come to visit me you’ll not see any servants milling around the house, or listening outside the door like they do on Downton Abbey. My employees have a chip imbedded in their necks that burns like hell if they’re not where they’re supposed to be. It’s easy to tell if someone isn’t following the rules. They’ll be grabbing their necks, shrieking in pain. My employees put up with these inconveniences because they each earn a quarter-million dollars a year and get every other week off.

  And because I treat them with complete respect.

  Apart from the neck thing, and a few strict rules.

  Tonight my evening crew serves us a fine dinner, and Kimberly’s cheeks have grown rosy from the wine. She’s having a good time despite the fact her topic hasn’t been discussed.

  “Recognize the dish?” I say.

  She stares at her food a minute. “It looks beautiful,” she says, “and smells heavenly.”

  “It’s the recipe you had in your pocket the night of the accident.”

  She looks at her pasta and smiles. “Thank you, Daddy.”

  “Enjoy.”

  When the conversation lags a bit, I ask, “How’s your mom?”

  “Have you talked to her?”

  I laugh. “Are you kidding?”

  She grins. “Mom’s got a boyfriend.”

  “Omigod!”

  “You’re too old to say Omigod!”

  “I was imitating you.”

  “Then say it right. Omigod!”

  “Omigod!”
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  She laughs. “Not even close.”

  I try it a couple more times.

  “Stop!” she says. “You’re embarrassing me in front of the help.”

  “The help?”

  She laughs. “Sorry. You know what I mean.”

  After dessert I dismiss the staff and Kimberly and I go back to the den. She says, “Can we talk now?”

  “Can I pour you a brandy first?”

  “No thanks. The two glasses of wine made me giggle like a thirteen-year-old all through dinner.”

  I look at her. “You were quite a handful at thirteen. I remember the time you—”

  “Dad?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Stop avoiding the subject.”

  I take a moment, then sigh. “Okay. Go ahead. Say it.”

  “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep pretending I’m your daughter. You have to face the fact she’s dead. It’s not healthy to have me come here every week, pretending I’m Kimberly. I didn’t sign on for this. Yes, you hired me to be her body double. But you also trained me to do bigger and better things. More important things.”

  “Kimberly, I—”

  “Layla, Mr. Creed! My name is Layla Hart. Say it. Please.”

  “Is it a matter of money? I can pay you more.”

  She shakes her head. “Of course not. You’re generous to a fault. You’re paying me a king’s ransom for a nice dinner every Thursday and a couple of phone calls during the week. I’d be crazy to give it up.”

  “Then why—”

  She holds up her hand. “I’m worried about you, Mr. Creed. I’m worried about…your sanity.”

  “You’re afraid I’ll snap?”

  She nods.

  To be honest, I’m impressed with her integrity. Most people would gladly take the money and never say a word. They’d justify posing as Kimberly by saying they’re helping me through a tough time. They’d call it therapy, and so would I.

  We look at each other a moment.

  I knew this was coming. It’s been building up inside her for weeks.

  I say, “Layla?”

  Her face does a complete change. “Thank God!”