Callie’s Last Dance

by John Locke

  “Wait till we get to your hotel room!”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “That’s mighty big talk for an older guy. Is there something I should know?”

  “Like what?”

  “Are you hiding a monster in your jeans?”

  “It’s not the size of the sword that counts,” I say. “It’s the fury of the attack.”

  42.

  “THE MOMENT OF truth!” Callie says, as we enter the room. “Are you ready?”

  “Are you kidding? I’ve been ready for ten years!”

  She laughs. “You’ve only known me for eight.”

  “Yeah, but I spent two years dreaming about meeting someone like you.”

  “And now you have. What’s left unsaid? Anything?”

  “Just this: you’re the most beautiful, exciting woman I’ve ever met. And I adore you.”

  She sits on the bed, kicks off her shoes, and suddenly suffers a sort of winking spasm in her right eye.

  “You okay?”

  “Of course. Why, what does it look like?”

  She does it again.

  “Like you’ve got an eyelash caught in your eye?”

  She laughs. “I was trying to give you a come-hither look?”

  “Come hither?”

  “A sexual rallying cry. A call to action.”

  “Do it again.”

  She does.

  I say, “Got it. Next time I see it, I’ll know what to do!”

  “Wait,” she says. “What if we’re at a party and I actually do have an eyelash in my eye?”

  “It would certainly liven up the party!”

  “Perhaps a verbal cue would be better,” she says.

  She pats the space on the bed beside her and says, “Come hither, Romeo.” Then adds, “How’s that?”

  “Works for me!” I say.

  I kick off my shoes.

  “Enough foreplay,” she says. “Take me now!”

  She lies down on her back in the center of the bed, spreads her legs, pulls up her sundress.

  “What happened to your panties?”

  She dangles them from her hand.

  “When did you-”

  “Do you really care?”

  I sit on the side of the bed and lean over her, intending to plant a little kiss on her vertical smile when it suddenly happens.

  An explosion.

  Then a pause.

  Then another explosion.

  I’m so disoriented by the suddenness of the attack my brain is slow to react. But my body’s in full fighting mode, circling, looking for attackers. But I see no one. I hear a gasp and turn toward Callie. See her eyes wide open, her face a frozen mask. Except for her mouth, which is opening and closing in a frightening way, like she’s trying to get air, and can’t.

  I shout her name, and drop beside her on the bed.

  She’s trying to lift herself up, trying to speak.

  I can’t hear. My ears are ringing, mind’s in a fog. I was so completely in the moment, and now we’re in a different moment, and she’s trying to speak. Trying to say something. I gather her in my arms and lift her up and see the blood. Not just some, but everywhere. Her back is sopping, the sheets beneath her drenched.

  “Oh, God!” I scream. “Callie! Oh no! Oh, my God, no!”

  43.

  THE NEXT HALF hour’s a blur. Even now, at the hospital, I’m having trouble remembering the exact sequence of events. I remember Callie passed out from loss of blood. I held a towel against her wounds, and called 911. Told the operator there’d been an explosion. Told her Callie’s name, age, physical condition. Gave our location, Winston Parke Hotel, room three-sixteen. She told me to make sure the door was open, said someone would be with us shortly. Had me stay on the line, answer questions about Callie’s condition so the medical team would know what they’re dealing with.

  “We’re getting other reports of a bomb detonating,” she said. “They’re preparing to evacuate the building.”

  “Any other injuries reported?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Are you hurt, Mr. Creed?”

  Was I? It never dawned on me to check.

  “No injuries, I’m fine,” I said. “Which tells me it wasn’t a bomb.”

  “Apparently it was,” she said.

  “It was a gun.”

  “A gun? Are you certain?”

  “Just a minute.”

  I pulled the bed halfway across the floor and looked through the hole in the concrete. It was a mess below us, but I saw a body, half-covered in dust and concrete, and the barrel of a giant handgun.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Sir?”

  “It was definitely a gun. A handgun.”

  “And did you shoot your girlfriend, Mr. Creed?”

  She said it in such a matter-of-fact way I almost didn’t catch the question.

  “What?”

  “Do you have the gun in your possession at this time?” she said.

  “The gunshots came from the room below us,” I said. “The guy who shot Callie is lying on the bed in what I assume is room two-sixteen.”

  While keeping 911 on the line, I used my cell phone to look up and dial the hotel’s number. When their operator answered, I put the room phone down and asked for the manager. When the manager got on the line I told him not to evacuate the building. Having all the people out front would delay Callie’s medical treatment. I said, “Lock the exit doors, station a guard at each door, and let no one out. You’re looking for a man or woman covered with plaster.”

  He said, “Is this a joke?”

  I said, “What’s your name?”

  “Bruce.”

  “Pay attention, Bruce,” I said, “because mine’s the last voice you’ll hear on this earth. Someone fired two very powerful shots below my room. Blew a hole so wide I can actually see the room below us. The rounds went through the ceiling, through my bed frame and struck my girlfriend in the back. She’s seriously hurt. Ambulance on the way. The guy who fired the shots is dead. I can see him through the hole in the floor. If anyone was with him they’ll be covered in plaster dust.”

  “First of all, you didn’t move your bed,” Bruce said. “Our beds are bolted to the floor.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Second, we’ve got a full-blown panic down here,” Bruce said. “We don’t have the personnel to station people at the doors, or the authority to hold our guests against their will.”

  “What type of security force do you have?” I asked.

  “I’m not going to answer that question, since I don’t know who you are. But the police have been called, and the sound you’re about to hear will be us evacuating the building.”

  “No matter. It was probably one man, acting alone. And he’s dead in the room below us. Here’s what I want you to do, Bruce. Go ahead and keep the doors unlocked. But lock an elevator for the private use of the medical team that’s on the way.”

  “What did you say your name was?” Bruce asked.

  “Donovan Creed.”

  “Well, as we were speaking, I pulled the room record for three-sixteen. That room is registered to a Ms. Callie Carpenter. So it isn’t “your” room, is it, Mr. Creed? In fact-”

  “Don’t even think about fucking with me, Bruce,” I said, then noticed Callie had regained consciousness. She spoke in a voice so weak the only word I heard was “Donovan!”

  I leaned closer. She coughed and gasped out some words.

  What she said was, “I can’t feel my legs.”

  I hung up on Bruce, picked the room phone back up, asked the 911 operator what was taking them so long. She demanded I stay on the phone with her, so I did, but used my cell to call my geeks. I told them what happened, and asked them to arrange a private jet to fly Dr. P. from Las Vegas to Cincinnati. Then I called Dr. P., told him where to meet the jet, and asked him what I could do to help Callie till the medics showed up. He asked me some questions about her co
ndition, like, “is there an exit wound on her chest?”

  “No.”

  “How’s her breathing?”

  “Shallow.”

  “Any blood or foam in the mouth?”

  “No.”

  – That sort of stuff. Then he told me to run my fingernail across the bottom of her foot and see if she could feel it. But by then, Callie was dead.

  44.

  THE MEDICS SHOWED up and worked heroically to get her heart started, and managed to do so, but she died again in the ambulance, and again at the hospital. Each time they managed to bring her back to life.

  “She’s a fighter,” one of the doctors said.

  “No shit,” I said.

  They pulled her away from me and got her on a gurney and started wheeling her down the hall.

  I yelled, “Don’t die on me, Callie Carpenter! Don’t you dare fucking die!”

  “That girl’s a fighter,” one of the nurses said.

  “You have no idea.”

  Now I’m in the waiting room, scared to death. Callie and I have been apart nearly three hours and no one’s given me any information. The police have been in and out asking nonstop questions. They’ve researched me and learned enough of my legend to clear the waiting room and station half a swat team with me in case I decide to go Rambo on them, in which case they’ve been ordered to take me down.

  Cincinnati SWAT is an impressive group. They’re respectful, which I appreciate, and deadly, which I respect. At some point a police detective tells me the cops at the hotel believe they’ve got the whole story sorted out.

  “You’ve just gone from suspect to witness,” he says.

  “What happened?”

  “Classic love triangle. Guy named Ridley caught his wife cheating with Tom Bell.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “What planet are you from? Tom Bell? World champion contender? Mixed martial arts?”

  I shake my head.

  Detective says, “Ridley thought Connie and Tom were in room three-sixteen, so he got the room below them, intending to shoot them while in the act of sexual congress.”

  “Sexual congress?”

  “That’s what we call it.”

  I make a mental note to tell Callie. She’ll like that. Sexual congress. Finally a congress we can endorse!

  “What room were they in?” I say. “Connie and Tom Bell.”

  “They made a fuss at the front desk about not being able to get room three-sixteen. But as you know, it was being used. So they took three-fifteen, across the hall.”

  “Lucky for them, huh?”

  He shrugs.

  “What was so important about room three-sixteen?” I ask.

  “It’s Connie’s lucky number. Her birthday, March sixteenth.”

  “Connie and Tom,” I say.

  He nods.

  “What’s Connie’s last name?”

  “I already said more than I should.”

  I nod. Then ask, “What about the gun? I never knew a civilian gun that could bore through concrete like that, though now that I think about it, the floor wasn’t as thick as I would have expected.”

  The detective checks his notes. “Nitro Zeliska.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Make of the gun.”

  I make a mental note to tell Callie that, too.

  Then I say, “You’re telling me Callie might die because Connie and Tom Bell liked to fuck in Callie’s room.”

  “No. If Callie dies it’s because Connie’s husband shot her.”

  He leaves first, then the SWAT team, and then I’m all alone in the room. I think about calling my daughter, but decide against it. She’ll tell Gwen, and Gwen will insist on being here. I’d rather avoid that situation, and figure Callie would feel the same way.

  45.

  HOURS GO BY.

  Dr. P. arrives, checks in with me, offers encouragement, starts to leave.

  “Where are you going?” I ask. “You just got here!”

  “I assumed you’d want me to check on Callie.”

  “They’ll never let you in there.”

  “I’m a doctor.”

  “Not here, you’re not.”

  “Donovan. I’m Eamon Petrovsky.”

  “So?”

  “Go to the library sometime. Check out the books and articles written about me.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. How about The Petrovsky Method?”

  “You’re famous?”

  “Among the medical community, I’m a god.”

  “You’re a plastic surgeon.”

  “That face you’re wearing? Have you forgotten I created that? No one on earth could have done that.”

  “Well if you’re so fucking great, quit bragging and go save Callie.”

  “Any message you want me to give her?”

  “Yeah. Tell her they’ll never let you in to see her. Because you’re a plastic surgeon, not a real doctor.”

  Dr. P. leaves the room in a huff, unaware I’m busting his balls. It’ll make him work harder to get me the information I seek. I know he’s got clout. He’s not just the world’s greatest plastic surgeon, he’s Darwin. He understands bureaucracy. Knows how to cut through all the red tape. He’ll meet the chief of surgery, don some scrubs, and gain admittance to the room where Callie’s being treated. He’s a legend in the medical community. If anyone can gain access to Callie and her treatment records, it’s him.

  A half hour passes before I see him again. When he enters the waiting room with another doctor in tow, I jump to my feet and ask, “How is she?”

  “Donovan, this is Doctor Barnard, lead surgeon and Chief of the Medical Staff.”

  Dr. Barnard and I nod. Dr. P. says, “Let’s sit.”

  “I need to know Callie’s alive.”

  “She’s alive.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief and take a seat. If she’s alive, I can deal with anything.

  Dr. P. says, “Brace yourself. Callie’s paralyzed from the waist down.”

  46.

  “I KNOW SHE’S paralyzed,” I say. “She already told me. But it’s a temporary condition, right? I’ve heard of this before. Temporary paralysis, caused by acute swelling. The swelling’s impinging the spinal cord, or a nerve or something. When the swelling goes down, she’ll regain full use of her legs, correct?”

  The doctors look at each other. Dr. P. shakes his head and says, “I admire you, Donovan, always have. But you need to leave the doctoring to us. Because nothing you just said makes any sense. Nor does it accurately describe Callie’s condition.”

  Dr. Barnard says, “Actually, one thing you said has merit. There is a single bullet fragment that somehow, miraculously, made its way between the spinal cord and the anterior spinal artery without severing either. Unfortunately, it’s this tiny fragment that’s causing Callie’s paralysis.”

  “Can’t a surgeon remove it?”

  “The short answer is no.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s a high-risk surgery.”

  “Why?”

  “The fragment shows up as a speck on the MRI, which means there are probably numerous other fragments in the vicinity even smaller. This goes beyond microsurgery. There’s a high chance a surgical procedure would do more harm than good.”

  “Why?”

  “The surgeon could nick her spinal artery, or the spinal cord. One could kill her, the other could make her a paraplegic.”

  “But say the fragments could be removed. Would she be able to walk again?”

  Dr. Barnard says, “That’s the crazy thing. If the fragments could be removed, she’d almost certainly regain full use of her legs.”

  “She’d be as good as new?”

  “After a sufficient recovery period.”

  “Years?”

  “Weeks.”

  “Well, that’s fantastic! Why the long faces? Why aren’t we celebrating?”

  Dr. P. says, “Because only a handful of surgeons
in the entire world are qualified to perform this type of surgery, and none of them would dare attempt it.”

  “Why not?”

  “As Dr. Barnard said, the risk of damage is too great. Callie’s extremely lucky to be alive. Even luckier not to be a paraplegic.”

  “She’s a virtual paraplegic now.”

  Dr. Barnard says, “Not true. Her actual diagnosis is paraparesis, a condition in which she has partial paralysis. Over the next few days she’ll have increased, but limited use of her legs. While she’ll never be able to walk again, she’ll have some feeling in her legs. With extensive physical therapy, she could eventually hope to move them on her own, in a swimming pool.”

  “In a swimming pool?”

  “It’s not as grim as it sounds.”

  “Really? Because it sounds pretty grim to me! How many swimming terrorists do you know?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Who’s she going to be able to kill, a water aerobics instructor?”

  Dr. Barnard appears uncomfortable with the direction the conversation has taken.

  He says, “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

  “We need to find a surgeon who’ll give it a try. Callie will take the chance. I guarantee she’ll sign off on it.”

  The doctors look at each other.

  Dr. P. says, “Donovan. The doctors won’t do it because they’re almost certain to worsen her condition. Their insurance carriers would never agree to the surgery, and no hospital would allow it to be performed for the same reason.”

  As he says this he gives me a wink. To Dr. Barnard it means nothing. An involuntary reflex, a facial tick. But to me it speaks volumes. Dr. P. held the same position at Sensory Resources that I’ve just agreed to take, but just as I’m also a free-lance hit man for the mob, Darwin had another job. He was Chief of Surgery at Sensory Resources. Our private hospital is full-service, with more high-tech equipment than any hospital in the country. Sensory is where spies go to get new faces. It’s where I got mine, and where Dr. P. once supervised the implanting of a micro chip in my brain. It’s also where presidents go to get checked out when they don’t want the rest of the world to know what’s wrong with them. If their medical issue turns out to be something minor, we ship them from Sensory to Walter Reed, and inform the public. We haven’t had a life-or-death presidential situation yet, but if we did, the president would have the procedure done at Sensory Resources, and we’d keep his condition a secret from the media.