Callie’s Last Dance

by John Locke

  “No. But it’s a start.”

  “Anyway, here’s the thing. It’s not practical to torture people and let them live to tell the police. So we can either kill them, or we let it go.”

  He thinks a moment, then says, “Okay, here are my terms. One, you’ll create press kits and send them to everyone on both lists.”

  “You’ve got another list?”

  “Yes, of course. There are more than fifty names in all.”

  “You must have been the world’s worst dancer!”

  “They’re on my lists for different reasons. You want to hear the rest of my terms, or what?”

  “Go on.”

  “Two, you’ll pay me the hundred million dollars you promised.”

  “Contingent on the operation being successful,” I say.

  “Same thing.”

  “Just to clarify, Callie regains full use of her legs.”

  “Of course. But I want the money held in escrow,” he says. “With the attorney of my choice. Deposited today, before we leave.”

  “Banks are closed.”

  “First thing in the morning.”

  “Done.”

  “Number three, my surgical assistant, Rose, has to agree to come.”

  “Is she in town?”

  “Yes, but she’s hard to pin down.”

  “Fine. Surely that’s it. I mean, you said the operation was child’s play.”

  “Child’s play for me. But I have one more demand.”

  I sigh. “Let’s hear it.”

  “After Ms. Carpenter regains full use of her legs you’ll fly back and have dinner with me and two guests at the place of my choosing.”

  “Locally?”

  “A short drive.”

  “Me and Callie?”

  “Just you.”

  “Who are the guests?”

  “You’ll find out at dinner. Not before.”

  “Should I be prepared for a physical confrontation?”

  “No, of course not. This will be a civil dinner in a fancy restaurant.”

  “Of all your demands, why does this one concern me the most?” I say.

  “Because it’s beyond your control?”

  He’s right.

  Dr. P. calls Dr. Barnard and asks if Callie is fit to fly.

  “Absolutely not,” Dr. Barnard says.

  “What if we were in the field, under battle conditions?”

  “No sooner than tomorrow morning.”

  “I’ll have a MedEvac on your roof at six a.m.”

  “Without my cooperation,” Dr. Barnard says. “Against my strongest recommendation.”

  “Noted.”

  50.

  “TELL ME NOT be scared,” Callie says.

  “Don’t be scared,” I say.

  “Tell me you’ll be waiting for me in the recovery room.”

  “I’ll actually be in the operating room with you.”

  “You’ll do anything to see me naked.”

  “Damn right I will.”

  She smiles a lazy, drug-induced smile.

  “I love you, Creed.”

  “Creed?”

  “That’s your name, isn’t it?”

  She goes out before I can answer.

  51.

  WE’RE IN THE operating room at Sensory Resources. I’m observing, Dr. P. and his old staff are doing their respective jobs in their supporting roles…

  …And then there’s Rose.

  If Dr. Gideon Box is a ten on the weirdness scale, his assisting nurse, Rose, is off the charts. Don’t get me wrong, she doesn’t act weird. Nor does she look weird. In fact, she’s incredibly beautiful. So beautiful I catch myself constantly staring at her.

  It’s not infatuation.

  It’s fascination.

  She’s beautiful in a Walt Disney/Snow White sort of way, meaning her hair is jet black, her skin impossibly white, and her lips as red as rose petals. While she can’t be more than thirty, when she looks at me, I feel a grandmother’s love washing over me. I feel better in her presence, and I’m reminded of a young woman I met in St. Alban’s Beach, Florida, who could take away your pain by standing near you.

  Libby Vail.

  Here’s the weird part: just as I was thinking about Libby Vail, Rose says, “Donovan. Have you ever been to St. Alban’s Beach, in Florida?”

  “Huh?”

  “You should check it out. I think you’d like it there.”

  “Shouldn’t you be concentrating on Callie?”

  “I work best when I talk.”

  “Why do you think I’d like St. Alban’s Beach?”

  “Your roots are there.”

  “What roots?”

  “Ever heard of the pirate, Jack Hawley?”

  “No.”

  “What’s it been, three hundred years? Where does the time go?”

  She smiles. “You used to look just like him.”

  Dr. P. and I exchange a look.

  “How do you know what Donovan used to look like?” Dr. P. says.

  “How do you know what Jack Hawley used to look like?” I say.

  “He was your ancestor,” Rose says.

  “Of course he was.”

  She laughs.

  “What?”

  “You’re just like him. No wonder Callie loves you.”

  I frown. “I’m just like a pirate? From three hundred years ago?”

  She looks up, smiles, and there it goes again-grandmother’s love.

  “I used to climb onto a beam in George Stout’s store and jump off, daring you to catch me.”

  “You dared me?”

  “Jack Hawley.”

  “The pirate.”

  “Yes.”

  She smiles again.

  Weird.

  In a beautiful, Snow White, loving grandmother sort of way.

  “We’re done here,” Dr. Box says. “Close.”

  “What? You can’t possibly be finished,” I say.

  “Why not?”

  “We’ve been here ten minutes.”

  “Look at the wall clock.”

  I do.

  According to the clock, we’ve been here ninety minutes.

  I think about what Rose said earlier.

  Where does the time go?

  52.

  WE’RE IN THE recovery room. Callie’s awake, on her side, slightly elevated. There are drainage tubes in her back. Rose is helping her drink some sort of smelly tea through a straw.

  “What is it?” Callie asks. “Skunk cabbage?”

  “Birch bark,” Rose says.

  She looks at me and says, “Like your great-great-grandfather used to drink.”

  “Who, the pirate?”

  I wink at Callie.

  Rose says, “Emmett Love.”

  “Who?”

  Rose touches my shoulder, and my mind feels like it’s flooded with images. Horses, guns, Indians-every western movie or TV show I’ve ever seen, I think.

  Except in all those westerns I watched as a kid I don’t remember seeing a dancing bear.

  “Look up these names,” Rose says. “You come from special stock.”

  “Right.”

  She suddenly flashes a stern look.

  “Don’t squander your heritage, Donovan.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Did I just ma’am a thirty-year-old?

  “You’re beautiful, Callie,” Rose says.

  “You’re the pretty one,” Callie says.

  “I do what I can. But you’d give Gentry a run for her money.”

  “Really?” Callie says.

  “Really.”

  “Who’s Gentry?”

  Rose smiles.

  When Callie’s done with the tea, Rose runs her fingertips up and down Callie’s legs.

  Callie’s eyes are focused on mine, which is how I can tell the moment she starts crying.

  I touch her forehead. “Are you in pain?”

  “No. I’m wiggling my toes.”

  53.

 
; I HEAR VOICES me, celebrating.

  “After all this time, we had to meet her,” Curly says.

  Larry waves at Callie. “You’re my favorite,” he says.

  She waves back. “Thank you. I think.”

  C.H. says, “Hi, Rose.”

  “Hi, Charlie,” Rose says.

  He blushes.

  Charlie?

  This is the name that’s supposed to be impossible for me to pronounce?

  “You know my researcher?” I ask Rose. “How’s that possible?”

  “We met many years ago in the Florida woods,” she says. “His family took care of me until I met the Stouts.”

  “Fine,” I say. “Don’t tell me.”

  I introduce the boys to Callie and say, “This is the first time they’ve left Geek City in years.”

  “Geek City?”

  “It’s okay,” Curly says. “We named it that.”

  Dr. Box comes in and says, “Don’t forget your promise.”

  “You’ve seen the press kit?”

  “I have.”

  “And?”

  “It’ll do.”

  “We’ll send it out today.”

  “What about our dinner?”

  “The one with you and your mystery guests?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Soon as Callie’s back to normal.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you, Dr. Box,” Callie says.

  “I enjoyed seeing you naked,” he says. “Highlight of my career, in fact.”

  I frown.

  Callie says, “You’re not leaving, are you?”

  “I’ve done my part, Dr. Petrovsky can take it from here.”

  “And Rose?” Callie says.

  “I’ll stay till you’re on your feet,” she says.

  54.

  Callie and Creed.

  Sensory Resources.

  TO KEEP GWEN at bay, Callie called her and said she had to assassinate a drug lord, and would be out of the country for eight weeks.

  Gwen said, “You can’t do that.”

  “Do what?” Callie said.

  “Just come and go for eight weeks at a time without giving me notice.”

  “It’s how the job works. You know that.”

  “Well, maybe I’m sick of your job.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Maybe I won’t be here when you decide to come home.”

  Callie said, “Do what you’ve got to do. But in the meantime, don’t call me.”

  On day five Callie takes her first steps since the shooting. Her wounds are healing at a miraculous pace, and because she’s convinced it’s due to the birch bark tea, I ask Rose to teach me how to prepare it. She takes me to the woods, points out a stand of birch trees, and has me cut the bark strips. Then she shows me how to boil it.

  “You should drink a cup every day,” Rose says.

  “Because my great-great-grandfather did?”

  “That’s right. And he lived to be a ripe old age. Considering the times.”

  “How did he die?”

  “That’s for you to look up.”

  “How is it you know so much about my ancestors?”

  “How is it you know so little about them?”

  I don’t have an answer for that.

  Then she says, “I’ve sent you two presents over the years. From the past.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Think about it.”

  “I’m tryin’ to think but nuttin’ happens!” I say, imitating Curly, from the Three Stooges.

  “One of the gifts is in your pocket as we speak.”

  I reach in my pocket and feel the silver dollar my grandfather gave me all those years ago.

  “Unless you’re my grandfather, I think you’re wrong.”

  “Someone had to give it to him,” she says.

  Like I say, she’s an odd one, this Rose.

  “Where’s the second gift?”

  She frowns. “You squandered it.”

  “Do tell,” I say, sarcastically.

  “I sent you a cannonball.”

  I recall the cannonball. But it wasn’t a gift. It fell from the sky during a horrific hail storm and crashed into the back of a truck I was sitting in.

  …In St. Alban’s Beach, Florida.

  I look her over, carefully, and remember a hallucination I saw just before the cannonball struck. There had been a store near the truck. Through the rain I could barely see, but there appeared to be a young woman standing on the roof of that store, laughing. She had jet black hair, and eyes that glowed yellow, with a vertical black line in the center, like a jungle cat. If Rose’s eyes looked like that, I’d haul ass and never look back.

  But like I say, it was an apparition, something I imagined. Because when I blinked my eyes a single time, she was gone.

  I don’t recall telling anyone about the cannonball, but there were several men with me that day, and the guy who owned the truck kept it as a souvenir. If Rose has spent any time in St. Alban’s, it’s quite possible she could have heard about the cannonball.

  And everyone who knows me knows about the silver dollar.

  And there’s this: she knows C.H., my elfin researcher. Charlie.

  How’s that possible? A woodland creature from centuries ago?

  Obviously a bullshit story.

  And yet it’s clear they know each other from somewhere.

  I think it over. Charlie’s one of my top researchers. He certainly knows everything about my family tree. If he’s been communicating with Rose over time, he might have told her about my heritage. My gut feeling says Rose isn’t dangerous. She’s grandmotherly, in a strange way. And yet I wonder if she’s up to something. If so, I might have to find out the hard way.

  How would it feel to torture someone who gives off a sweet grandmother vibe?

  That afternoon, Rose leaves for New York. Callie and I finally find ourselves alone.

  “Is there any such thing as too much love?” she asks, dreamily.

  “I guess we’ll find out,” I say. Then add, “I know the true cost of love.”

  “Tell me,” she says.

  “Power.”

  She frowns. “Excuse me?”

  “All love comes from power.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “I am.”

  “I’ve read a lot of romance poems,” Callie says.

  “You have?”

  “Don’t act surprised. But the sentiment that all love comes from power was never posited by Emily Dickinson.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Quite.”

  “Should I explain?”

  “Only if you wish to maintain the slightest hope of getting in my pants.”

  “That might actually happen today?”

  “After our jog.”

  I smile. “Funny.”

  I start to speak, but she places her index finger over her lips and says, “Think this through, okay? Don’t screw it up.”

  “Okay.”

  She waits a moment, then says, “Ready?”

  “I am.”

  She nods. “Okay then. Say what you mean.”

  “Every drop of love you give costs a drop of your power. The more power you lose, the more vulnerable you become.”

  “What’s the power you’re giving up?”

  “The power to not be hurt.”

  “You’re saying the more you love someone, the more power you give them to hurt you?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And that’s why you don’t fall in love easily.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And this is all part of your abandonment issues?”

  “Probably.”

  She looks down long enough to make me wonder what she could possibly be thinking. When she finally looks back up, there are tears in her eyes.

  Lots of tears.

  But there’s something else going on in her face I’ve never seen before.


  Hope.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “Yes. Very.”

  She motions me closer, then slaps my face so hard it knocks me back.

  “What the hell?”

  Callie breaks into a huge grin and says “Omigod, Donovan!”

  “What?”

  “I just slapped your face! Again!”

  “So?”

  “You never saw it coming!”

  “What, your hand?”

  “A month ago you would’ve blocked that slap in your sleep.”

  “I’ve heard this before. What’s your point?”

  “You love me!”

  “I already told you that! Are you going to keep slapping me every time you question my love?”

  “Yes, absolutely.”

  “So even if I see it coming, I have to allow it?”

  “You’re the one who said that bullshit about giving me the power to hurt you.”

  She laughs. But there are still tears. She’s laughing and crying at the same time.

  “You love me!” she says. “You honestly, seriously, love me!”

  I frown, thinking about the slap. “Try it again,” I say.

  She bursts into laughter. When it dies down, all that’s left on her flawless face is her radiant smile.

  “You love me,” she says, “and it’s okay.”

  “It is?”

  “Uh huh. Because I love you, too.”

  “You do? Still?”

  “With all my heart.”

  “What about Gwen?”

  Callie laughs. “You need to work on that.”

  “On what?”

  “Romance.”

  “What are you talking about? I’m romantic.”

  “Being romantic isn’t the same as romance.”

  “It’s not?”

  She says, “I just told you I loved you, and you said, ‘What about Gwen’?”

  “It’s a fair question. You’re living with Gwen.”

  “What about your ex-wife, Janet?”

  “What about her?”

  “When you said you loved me I didn’t ask, ‘What about Janet?’”

  “That’s different. You live with Gwen. She shares your bed!”

  Callie smiles. “Not after today.”

  She lets that comment hang in the air between us like a giant, heart-shaped balloon.

  I reach for her hand and kiss it. Then slap her face.

  “Ow!” She yelps. Then says, “I could’ve blocked that, if I wanted to.”

  Then she says, “What are you grinning at?”