by John Locke
“Do you think I have issues?” I ask.
“You’ve got more issues than Kleenex has tissues.”
“That’s an old joke.”
“You’re an old man.”
“Old- er. Old-er. Not old.”
She shrugs. “I like the stool, Dr. Box.”
“You do?”
“Ask me to call you Gideon.”
“Please,” I say. “Call me Gideon.”
“Thank you, Gideon,” she says, warmly.
I know where this is leading. She hopes by being nice to me I’ll pay for her cancer treatment. Or maybe get her into a clinical study. The suitcase still concerns me. She couldn’t possibly expect me to let her stay here, could she? And how could I trust her? She and Cameron obviously broke into Chris Fowlers’ house after I left. What sort of people would do that?
People like me. I broke into his home first.
But why would Willow and Cameron steal from the Fowlers?
Because they thought they were stealing from me. Because…
I take a deep breath.
“Willow, I’m sorry for the way I treated you and Cameron last Thursday.”
“At the Firefly?”
“And after.”
Willow studies my face a moment, then says, “I understand you wanted some pussy. That makes sense. You also seemed to get off on humiliating me and trying to provoke me, which probably has something to do with your childhood. What I don’t understand is why, after fucking us, you robbed us at gunpoint.”
I say nothing.
“You hit me!” she says. “You threatened and terrified us.”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
“Is this just you, needing to prove how powerful you are? Bullying a couple of teenage girls?”
“I think it’s more complicated than that.”
She nods slowly, then says, “Breaking into Chris Fowler’s house and stealing his identity is even more complicated, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know his wife was murdered?”
“ Excuse me?”
“Chris Fowler’s wife, Kathy.”
“She’s been murdered?”
“Shortly after three p.m. last Friday.”
I do the math in my head.
“Don’t worry, you’re safe,” Willow says. “As I recall you were in the trunk of a Mercedes at the time.”
I recall it too, and it’s terribly embarrassing. There I was, Dr. Gideon Box, world renowned surgeon, curled up in the trunk of my rental car, nursing wounds I received from a brawl in a strip club parking lot. Apart from my embarrassment, I wonder how much DNA evidence I might have left at the scene. I tidied up before leaving Chris’s house, of course, but not the way I’d clean a crime scene.
“Do they know who killed her?”
“Getting nervous?”
“A little. Aren’t you?”
“Why would I be nervous?”
“The bedding, vacuum cleaner, and whatever else you took.”
“They’re saying the husband did it.”
“Chris? Wasn’t he in the Caymans?”
“They think he hired a contract killer.”
“Did someone confess?”
“I don’t know. This is just what people are saying.”
I pause.
“You said your father’s a lawyer?”
Willow cocks her head and gives me a strange look.
“I’m not asking you to pay for my cancer treatment,” she says.
“You’re not?”
She shakes her head.
“Then-”
“What am I doing here?”
“Yes.”
“You said you might be able to help me. I was wondering what you had in mind.”
“Is your father in a position to pay for treatment?”
“My father died in prison.”
“ Prison? But you said-”
“I know what I said.”
She sighs. “My father really was a lawyer. But he was also a wife-beater. One day he went too far.”
“He killed your mother?”
“Yup.”
“Jesus.”
“Exactly.”
“How old were you?”
“Almost fifteen.”
“Was this in Cincinnati?”
“Nashville.”
“Did they put you in foster care?”
“Those who were willing to take me didn’t have space yet, so I was placed on a waiting list. But I didn’t wind up in an orphanage, or children’s home, or whatever they’re called.”
“What happened?”
“At the last minute my aunt and uncle stepped up to the plate and took me in, which I thought was pretty nice of them, considering there was no inheritance or insurance.”
“Were they good people?”
“Were they good people?” she repeats. She thinks about it a moment.
“You know, they went to church sometimes, and they both had jobs. They bought me clothes, drove me to school each day, took me to the doctor. But things didn’t work out. I stayed with them a couple of months, then ran away.”
“Why?”
“My uncle tried to grope me whenever his wife wasn’t around. I could deal with that. But when he raped me, I felt he crossed a line.”
So Bobby was wrong. He wasn’t her first sexual partner.
“Why didn’t you tell your aunt?”
“He’s my father’s brother.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Let’s just say Aunt May didn’t get all those black eyes by running into doors.”
I ease myself to the floor and sit with my legs crossed, facing her.
The last time I sat on a floor was in Chris Fowler’s kitchen, while gloating about fucking and robbing this same young lady, and her best friend.
I look up into her eyes.
“How’d you get away from your uncle? Where did you go?”
“After my uncle fell asleep that night I stole all the cash from his wallet and ran to the bus stop, hoping to get out of town before he discovered I was missing. But when I got there I read the schedule and learned the last bus had already come and gone an hour earlier.”
“What did you do?”
“Put my head in my hands and cried like a baby. I kept crying off and on until a guy showed up on a motorcycle and asked if I needed a ride.”
“Bobby?”
She nods.
“And you’ve been with him ever since?”
“Until just recently,” she says.
Right. Until just recently.
Because just recently I killed him.
I work it around in my head to make sure I understand the full impact of my actions.
Last Thursday evening, to blow off steam, I made it my life’s mission to seduce eighteen-year-old Willow Breeland, an orphaned cancer patient who’s suffered physical, emotional, and sexual abuse at the hands of her uncle and boyfriend. I manipulated Willow, humiliated her, and provoked her for no other reason than to get in her pants.
But that wasn’t enough.
I also felt the need to fuck her best friend, Cameron Mason.
Then I pulled a gun on both women, slapped Willow twice, threatened them, frightened them, and stole their money, including the cash Willow was hoping to use for her cancer treatments. In the process, I upset her boyfriend, Bobby, who basically saved her life three years earlier. Then, when he was wounded, unarmed, and helpless, I killed him, even though I could have easily saved his life.
And now I’m sitting here on the floor of my five million dollar penthouse, in perfect health, worried she wants something from me, like a place to stay for the night, and perhaps some sort of guidance regarding her terminal illness.
If that’s not enough, while all these thoughts are going through my head, I can’t help but think how incredible it would be to get into her sweet pants again.
I’m a bad doctor.
She says, “I brought you s
omething.”
“You mean like a gift?”
“More like a get-out-of-jail card.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sit tight. I’ll bring it to you.”
“You’re not going to pull a gun on me, are you?”
She stands, walks across the room, and gets her suitcase. She extends the handle and rolls it across the floor behind her.
Now she’s standing over me, four feet away.
“Close your eyes,” she says.
“I’d rather not.”
She laughs. “It’s not a gun, Gideon.”
“Still.”
She rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”
She turns away from me and unzips the main compartment and removes something. When she turns back to face me I realize she is, in fact, holding a gun. My first reaction is to jump to my feet, but she cocks the hammer and snarls, “Don’t even think about it, Gideon. I’m dying, I’m angry, and have nothing to lose.”
In the last few minutes Willow has put me through a lot of emotions. I’ve felt superior to her, inferior to her, sorry for her, curious about her, and even horny for her.
Now all I want to know is one thing. And hope I can ask it without allowing my voice to crack.
“What is it you want, Willow?”
33
“Lie down on your back,” she says.
“Why?”
“Just do it, Gideon. I’ve come a long way to be here.”
“If you’re looking for money-”
“Don’t insult me. I’m here because I have nowhere else to turn. Yeah, I was dying of cancer before you ever blew into town. But thanks to you, I’ve lost my boyfriend, my job, my best friend, and my apartment. Now lie down!”
I lie on my back and say, “Think this over before you do something stupid. I’m in a position to help you get the finest treatment available.”
“Take off your clothes,” she says.
“ What?”
“You heard me. Strip. Now!”
“No.”
She leans over and slaps my face, hard. Then slaps it again, paying me back for slapping her at Chris Fowler’s house.
“I’m dead serious, Gideon.”
I remove my clothes but place them on my crotch.
“Toss them toward the couch,” she says.
I toss them.
She sits on the stool and points the gun at my crotch and says, Spread your legs wide apart.
I do.
“It’s humiliating, isn’t it,” she says. A statement, not a question.
I say, “Yes. It’s humiliating. You’ve made your point. But you’re a stripper. Making you strip isn’t far from what you do for a living.”
“Oh, really? Well, you’re a surgeon, right? Maybe I should force you to perform surgery on yourself at gunpoint.”
“What do you want from me?”
She sighs. “I bet when you walk in the hospital you have total power. The nurses probably pee their pants worrying what you might do, or say, and your bosses have to bend over backwards to make sure you’re happy.”
“If you’re planning to shoot me, can we skip the lecture?”
“Know what, Gideon?”
“What?”
“You don’t look so powerful right now. You know how you look?”
“Like a naked guy?”
“Like a very average middle-aged man with a very flaccid penis.”
She leans over me and flicks my dick.
“Ow!”
“I bet if a total stranger saw you like this, she wouldn’t be able to tell you’re a world-class surgeon. She’d probably guess you’re a janitor, a pest control guy, or a TV repairman.”
I’m lying on the floor on my back naked, my legs spread wide apart while an eighteen-year-old woman talks trash and stares at my genitals. The one thing that makes it almost bearable, we both know she has every right to do it. I close my eyes in deep humiliation and shame, and neither of us speaks for a full minute until I say, “How long do you expect me to lie here like this?”
“We’re almost done.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I haven’t robbed you yet.”
34
“You’re planning to rob me?” I say.
“No. I was just messing with you.”
Willow walks over to the couch, picks up my clothes, and tosses them back to me.
“You can get dressed now,” she says. “But don’t stand up till I say you can.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
While I put my clothes on, she says, “I actually did bring you something.”
“What, nunchucks? A bazooka?”
“A peace offering.”
She pulls a zip-lock plastic bag from her suitcase.
“Recognize this?” she says, holding it up.
“Looks like a garage door opener.”
She tosses it to me and says, “Think about it, Gideon.”
I do. It’s Chris Fowler’s garage door opener. The one I removed from the burgundy Escalade in his garage after breaking into his home. I must have left it in the rental car.
Perhaps I’m not suited to a life of crime.
“How’s this a peace offering?” I say.
“The police are seeking the hit man who killed Kathy Fowler. Your fingerprints are all over her garage door opener.”
It hits me like a ton of bricks.
“You could have framed me for murder,” I say.
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t.”
I think about it some more. “A few minutes ago you said you were dying, angry, and had nothing to lose. But you weren’t angry. If you were angry, there are a thousand ways you could have gotten this into the hands of the police.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t want me to go to jail.”
“No.”
“Because you want me to help you.”
“It would be nice if you helped me. But I would’ve given this to you either way.”
“Because you know I didn’t kill Kathy.”
“And because I’m not a vindictive person.”
“Except you humiliated me just now.”
“Except for that. And that was for your benefit, not mine.”
“ My benefit?”
“You didn’t just humiliate me and Cameron that night, you scared the shit out of us. And I could tell it gave you a rush.”
“You and Cameron snort cocaine for a rush.”
“Yeah, but we never broke into anyone’s house or stole things.”
She catches my look and adds, “Until we met you, anyway.”
She sighs. “Look, I’m sure you do good things at the hospital. But you do some really shitty things in the real world.”
“You wanted me to see what it feels like to be on the receiving end.”
She nods.
“It worked. I felt humiliated and shamed.”
“Good.”
“But if I’m being completely honest, what you did to me won’t change my behavior. If you had done this a few weeks from now, I would’ve felt exhilarated instead of shamed. Assuming I thought you might kill me.”
“Why?”
“Like we said, I have issues. These kids I work on? They’re rag dolls that have to be brought back to life. I…have to bring them back to life. And if I manage to do it, the orderlies quickly wheel in another one. After a few months of that, a bomb goes off inside me. I have to find new ways to keep myself from going insane.”
“I think you’re overlooking the real problem here, Gideon.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re already insane.”
“I know. But I’m still saving lives.”
“Are you, Gideon? Because on my scorecard, you’re oh and two.”
I shake my head. “That’s not fair. I’ll take full responsibility for Bobby’s death. But I’ve never even met Kathy Fowler.”
“I’m not talking about Kathy.”
/> “I don’t understand.”
“Cameron died.”
35
Willow pauses, then hands me her gun, then starts to cry.
“Cameron’s dead?” I say. “ Shit! What happened?”
Willow’s crying escalates. She tries to speak, but can’t. I use the time to remove the bullets from her gun and drop them in my pocket. She falls to the couch and buries her face in one of my designer pillows. I feel terrible for Cameron but I’m also wondering if Willow’s getting tears and snot all over my pillow.
I might be crazy, but I trust Willow. She could have killed me just now, or had Bobby kill me at the park, or when we arrived at Maggie’s farm. She probably saved my life when Bobby tried to shoot me the second time, by taking his knees out from under him.
Willow had plenty of reasons to kill me, and plenty of opportunities, and chose not to.
When she finishes crying herself out she says, “You should’ve stayed at the hospital. You would’ve protected her.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Her eyes are closed and she’s swaying slightly from side to side, but not at all similar to the way she’d strip for a man. As she grieves quietly in my living room, it all comes down to this in my mind: her best friend is dead because of me.
I choose this moment to offer her my guest room for the night and she accepts. Perhaps she’ll kill me in my sleep. Do I care?
Not really.
Am I afraid she’ll rob me?
No.
Like Willow said, everything in my penthouse, other than the wooden stool, was put here by decorators. People who don’t know me, who expected me to accept their vision of what belongs here, instead of mine. If she somehow manages to steal my stuff I’ll simply replace it with something I like. It might not be proper, or elegant, but it’ll reflect who I am.
Of course, it would help if I knew who I am.
Willow explains what motivated her to come to New York City.
After I dropped her off at the park, after I tried to hug her and she slapped me, she drove to her place to pick up some of her things. The police were there, searching the place, treating it like a crime scene. They wouldn’t allow her to touch or remove anything. The landlord was there as well, madder than a hornet. They got into a shouting match, and he evicted her. She drove back to Dayton, entered Cameron’s hospital room, and found an empty bed, freshly made. At first she thought they’d taken her friend somewhere to run tests, so she sat in the big chair in Cameron’s room. After an hour, she went to the nurse’s station and learned Cameron had been moved to intensive care. They said she caught a serious infection. Hours later, to Willow’s horror, Cameron was dead.