by John Locke
When Creed seduced Sam’s wife, Rachel, he told her his name was Kevin. She liked it, and sticks with it.
“Kevin calls me every week,” Rachel says. “But he won’t say where he is or what he’s doing.”
“Let me visit and I’ll tell you what I know.”
“When can you get here?”
Sometimes Rachel forgets they live in an underground bunker. Separated by halls and walls, not states or countries.
“Thirty seconds,” he says.
“Make it five minutes. I need to get dressed. Wait, is it something bad? He’s not dead, is he?”
“No.”
“Good. I love him.”
“I know.”
Sam hangs up and tries Doc Howard’s phone number. Maybe says Doc Howard has been killed. If that’s the case, Sam might be off the hook. He might not have to steal any more classified information from the government. He wishes he hadn’t sent the Bin Laden photos. If someone gets into Doc’s computer, they might be able to trace the photos back to Sam.
Someone answers the phone.
“Hello, Sam.”
The voice on the other end is electronic, and sounds exactly the same as Doc Howard.
“Doc?”
“Doc Howard is dead. Of course, you’ve already heard this news.”
“Who is this?”
“Listen carefully, Sam. Are you listening?
“Yes, sir.”
“Your deal with Doc Howard, aka Darwin, is hereby cancelled.”
Sam pauses, perplexed. He tries to work it out in his mind, but there’s insufficient data.
“I don’t understand,” he says.
“You’re done.”
“Are you…you’re not planning to kill me, are you?”
“No. But we can no longer protect you.”
“What do you mean?”
“You stole billions of dollars from some really nasty people.”
“I didn’t steal it. Donovan Creed did.”
“Maybe you can explain that when they come to call.”
“We can still work together.”
“In what possible capacity?”
“Did you receive my recent email?” Sam says.
“You’re testing me?”
“It seems appropriate, under the circumstances.”
“If you’re referring to the Bin Laden photos, I destroyed them, along with everything else on Darwin’s computers. You’re off the hook Sam.”
“You seem to know everything Doc Howard knew. I think you’re him.”
“I could care less what you think. You called me, remember?”
“I called Doc Howard.”
The man laughs. “It doesn’t matter who you call, Sam. I’m always listening.”
Sam says, “Doc Howard might be dead, but you’re Darwin.”
The man says nothing. Is Sam right? Could this be the real Darwin? And if so, does it matter?
Sam says, “What about Kimberly Creed?”
“You might want to re-think having Kimberly kill Gwen Peters.”
“How can you possibly monitor my cell phone calls?”
“Child’s play, Sam. Why do you want her to kill Gwen?”
“When Creed finds out his daughter killed his girlfriend, he’ll hit the ceiling. It’s part of the sweet revenge Doc Howard and I spoke about.”
Darwin clucks, as if chiding a young boy. “Use your head, Sam.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s a much better hit out there for you.”
“Which hit is that?”
“Sherry Cherry.”
“Who?”
“Your mother-in-law.”
“Well, this time you’re wrong. My mother-in-law is Sherry Birdsong.”
“She’s using her maiden name these days.”
“Sherry Cherry?”
“That’s right.”
“You’re joking! And even if you’re not, why would I want to kill Rachel’s mother? She’s a junkie.”
“Creed brought her to Sensory Resources, placed her under Doc Howard’s care. As soon as she’s clean, he plans to exchange her for Rachel.”
“What?”
“Sherry and Rachel have the same gene. Creed worked a deal with the government to exchange them, after Sherry gets clean. And we’re talking days, Sam, not weeks or months. Now that Doc Howard’s dead, Creed will find someone else to certify her as clean. If that happens, you’ll spend years of your life in the hole with your mother-in-law instead of your wife.”
Sam slaps his hand against his head. Idiot! How could he fail to consider the possibility Sherry might have the same gene as her daughter?
“Does Rachel know about the exchange?”
“No. She only knows Creed promised to get her out. But that’s his plan.”
“If I kill Sherry, Rachel has to stay underground until we develop a cure for the Spanish Flu.”
“That’s right. And from what I understand, you’re what, ten years away?”
“At least.”
Darwin says, “You want to really beat Creed? Have his daughter kill Rachel’s mother. You’ll have Rachel and her future children all to yourself for at least ten years.”
“If Sherry’s at Sensory Resources, Kimberly can’t touch her.”
“Correct. But now that Doc Howard’s dead, I’ll see to it Sherry gets released. I can coordinate it to fit your schedule.”
“You’ll see to it?”
“That’s right. I suppose that makes you think I’m Darwin? Fine. Call me Darwin.”
How would it work?”
“When Sherry gets released she’ll need a ride to the airport.” I’ll have the driver take her to a location that’s suitable for killing.”
“This might be the best day of my life!” Sam says.
“Glad I could be a part of it,” Darwin says.
Sam’s joy doesn’t last long. He feels his ears burning. He grits his teeth. It’s a proven fact Sam’s a genius of the highest order. Ten times smarter than Creed! So how is it Creed always manages to stay a step ahead of him? Darwin has done him a huge favor, revealing Creed’s plans.
But at what cost?
Sam says, “What do I owe you for this information?”
“Nothing. This business about Rachel’s mother is for my own amusement.”
“This whole scenario about the shared gene never crossed my mind. I don’t understand how Creed got it and I didn’t.”
“It was too obvious, Sam. Creed’s an undisciplined thinker.”
“He thinks outside the box?”
“No. People who think outside the box start with the box. Creed doesn’t even know there’s a box.”
Sam says, “Of course there’s a box. It’s a metaphor for all you know about a specific situation. Using that as a starting point—”
“Don’t beat yourself up about it,” Darwin interrupts. “This thing between you and Creed amuses me. On paper, it’s all you. But Creed’s got your number.”
“Why is that, do you think?”
“It comes down to logic, and critical thinking.”
“No one in the world is more logical than me!” Sam says, indignantly. “Compared to me, Spock the Vulcan is Porky Pig!”
“That’s your weakness, Sam. Your facility for logical, deductive reasoning makes you as predictable as the days of the week. Your arch enemy Creed is the most undisciplined, illogical, irrational opponent you could possibly face. He’s everything you aren’t, starting with insane.”
“He doesn’t play fair,” Sam says.
“That reduces it to the lowest common denominator,” Darwin agrees.
“You’ve saved me a decade of misery,” Sam says.
“Assuming you make the kill.”
“I’ll make it. Then I’ll destroy Donovan Creed.”
“No you won’t. But I like your attitude.”
Sam says, “You know Creed better than you know me, but don’t sell me short. The smart money bets on Creed, I get
that. So my chances of beating him are less than fifty percent. But what’s a realistic assessment? Thirty, thirty-five percent?”
“Statistically?”
“Yes.”
“I could be wrong. I don’t want to discourage you.”
“That’s okay. I want your honest opinion.”
“Zero.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Sam, you need to put things in perspective.”
“I’m listening.”
“Compared to your brain power, Creed is as insignificant as an ant.”
“That sounds about right,” Sam says.
“Except that you’re an angry little boy, and Creed is all the ants in the world.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“Assume you’re standing in your yard, and an ant bites your ankle. It burns. You get angry and stomp on the ant hole and crush it. After a time the ants dig their way out and one of them bites you again. Furious, you grab your garden hose and flood the colony. A few days later, you’re in your kitchen, drinking coffee, when an ant bites your foot. You run outside and pour gasoline down the ant hole and light it. In the process, you set your clothes on fire and get burned half to death. While you’re recuperating in the hospital, the ants continue building their colony. By the time you get home, you’re weaker than you started, but the ants are twice as strong.”
“With all due respect Darwin, what’s your point?”
“When the ants bite you, it’s not personal. It’s what they do.”
“That’s it?”
“In part.”
“What’s the rest?”
“At the end of the day, you’re nothing but an angry little boy.”
“And what’s Creed?”
“A force of nature.”
“Fuck Creed!”
“That’s the spirit, Sam.”
Rachel Case.
SAM LOOKS HAPPY, sitting in the chair by the wall.
Rachel’s sitting on the side of her bed, facing him in a room so small their knees are practically touching.
“Where’s Kevin?”
“Las Vegas.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure.”
“How long’s he been there?”
“At least a month, off and on.”
She lets that information roll around in her head until she loses track of it.
She says, “Kevin’s my boyfriend.”
Sam nods. “Have you ever heard the name Gwen Peters?”
“I don’t think so. Why?”
“She’s an unusually pretty, platinum blonde.”
“How old?”
“Twenty, I think, and a former stripper. She was married to a gambler named Lucky Peters.”
Rachel moves her mouth to one side and nibbles at the corner of her mouth.
“A stripper? Why would I know a stripper?”
Sam says, “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but she’s been fucking Kevin.”
Rachel leaps to her feet and slaps him with her right hand. As he tries to cover up, she makes a fist with her left, and connects with his jaw. She rears back to slap him again with her right hand, but he grabs her wrist, then—shit!—takes another left hook to the face. He can’t time the left while holding the right, so he ducks under her arms while standing, and lifts her off her feet and throws her backwards, onto the bed. As she tries to sit up he pins her arms, but leaves his face exposed. She head-butts him, connecting with his nose.
Sam feels it break.
He howls and jumps back and runs out of the room to the infirmary.
Kevin is only allowed to call Rachel once a week, on Sundays, but Rachel can call him anytime, if she gets permission from Major Jordan’s office in Area B. She calls the major’s office, a secretary logs her in and dials the number. Kevin often ignores her calls, but this morning, to Rachel’s surprise, he answers.
“Hi baby!” Kevin says.
“You’re in Las Vegas?”
“I am. How’d you know?”
“Who’s Gwen Peters?”
“You remember Callie Carpenter?” he says.
“The blonde.”
“Right. Anyway, Gwen is Callie’s girlfriend.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
“What did you hear?”
“You’ve been fucking her.”
“Who told you that?”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m going to kill her!”
“You’re in an underground bunker,” Kevin says.
“But I’m getting out soon, you said so yourself. And when I do, I’m going to slice her throat and stab her eyes. Then we’ll see how pretty she is! Then I’m going to follow you around and kill everyone you look at! Then we’ll go to bed and make love. When you fall asleep, I’ll stab you eight million times!”
“How’s that psychiatric treatment going for you?” he says.
“You think that’s funny? You think I like being stuck here in this shit hole? You think—”
A strange noise comes over the line. Kevin’s voice is breaking up. She can’t understand him, but it doesn’t matter. Rachel’s got something to say, and says it ten times before hanging up.
What she says is, “Gwen Peters is gonna die!”
Miles Gundy (Felix).
WITH THE DERBY City Fair attack behind him, Miles knows the police will keep a close eye on plastic containers. That will last what, three weeks? In two months they’ll let their guard down, and if Miles is still alive, he’ll nail a public office building’s restroom. People are used to liquid soap. They won’t give it up without a fight.
State fair officials around the country will stop using hand sanitizers. Government offices might need a little extra coaxing.
Miles catches his reflection in the interior mirror of his Honda Accord and says, “You know what this means? It means you made a difference, Miles! You changed the system.”
He smiles.
It’s a beautiful Sunday afternoon in central Tennessee, and everything’s going his way. He created mayhem in one state, today will make two. Miles slides a CD into the slot on the dashboard and jerks his body to the maniacal beat of his favorite tune, Demon Devil Dog, as it thunders from six speakers of surround sound. His Accord offers 160 watts of total stereo output, and Miles is leaving no watt unused.
At this decibel level, one tune’s enough. When the song’s last shriek dies down, Miles glances at the mirror and says, “From now on every man, woman, and child will have to stop and think before washing their hands in a public place. Something they took for granted their whole life will now be a source of fear.”
He nods at himself and adds, “Thanks to you.”
He cruises the tony neighborhood of Blair, a suburb of Nashville, till he sees what he’s looking for.
Balloons and a poster.
Balloons and a poster lets the whole world know a kid is having a birthday party. All you have to do is follow the arrow on the signs. Miles shakes his head in disbelief, thinking how the unsuspecting parents are leading him to the killing field. After today, no parent will dare put up balloons and a poster to direct guests to their children’s birthday parties.
State by state, event by event, Miles will change the way people live their lives.
What better way for a dying, unemployed chemist to achieve immortality?
Miles follows the posters to the party location, turns into the long driveway, parks by the other cars in the circle. He pops the trunk, removes a giant, double-stuffed cookie cake, and carries it to the front door.
He balances the giant cake in his left hand, while pressing the door bell with his right.
A bored teenager opens the door and directs him through the house to the backyard. As the children recognize the brightly-colored box, they rush to surround Miles. Two of the moms clear off a space on the poolside table to accommodate the cookie cake.
Miles’s eyes follow the movements of one of the moms, a pretty redhead, who look
s up in time to catch him staring down her blouse. She gives him a disgusted look that shows what she thinks of a delivery man who’s crass enough to attempt a down-blouse while surrounded by children at a kids’ birthday party.
Miles smiles broadly and says, “Happy Birthday!” then leaves. No one thinks to ask if there’s a bill to pay. No one offers him a tip, or escorts him back through the house. As he stands in the kitchen, looking around, he considers sneaking through the house. He probably has time to do some truly dastardly things.
But why push his luck?
He works his way to the foyer, opens the front door, gets in his car, and backs out the driveway.
Miles purchased the pre-made cookie cake in a busy mall in Indianapolis two days ago. It’ll be slightly stale, but the kids won’t notice. They also won’t notice the miniscule amount of ricin poison Miles dusted over the top of the filling. It was a bitch getting the top layer of cookie off the cake and back on again, and it didn’t turn out quite as pretty as it was when purchased, but again, the kids won’t care.
Miles hopes the pretty redhead mom with the pale pink bra samples the cookie cake.
Donovan Creed.
I’VE ONLY BEEN in Vegas a few weeks, but I’ve already made an investment. I purchased a plastic surgery center and day spa I plan to open when the police release the building to me. They’re still investigating a mass murder that took place on the premises. I’ll start fresh with a whole new staff headed by Dr. Eamon Petrovsky, the world’s greatest plastic surgeon. Dr. Petrovsky (I call him Dr. P.) headed the team of surgeons that gave me the new face I’m wearing.
Earlier today I called Dr. P. and told him to pack some clothes for our trip.
“What trip?” he said.
“We’re flying to Louisville, Kentucky.”
“Why?”
“What do you care? Until our license is granted, you’re unemployed.”
I told him I’d swing by his place at three and give him a ride to the private airfield. Then I went for a run, worked out in Callie’s gym a half hour, then took a shower. After packing an overnight bag, I found the women glued to the TV in the den.
“What’s happened?” I ask.
“Remember Mindy Renee Whittaker?” Callie says.
I think a minute. “The kid who got kidnapped years ago?”
Callie nods.