by John Locke
Maybe says nothing. Finally Sam says, “You did, didn’t you.” More like an answer than a question.
“I asked myself, ‘what would Sam Case do?’ And then yes, I killed her. Didn’t want to, but I was afraid she might tell the authorities what she knew. Did I do good?”
He pauses. “You’re telling me the truth?”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I didn’t say that. It’s just, I don’t understand why she’d freeze up like that.”
“On the way there she said she couldn’t deal with killing innocent people. Said you hired her to kill businessmen, and she didn’t sign up for this type of work.”
“You got all that out of her? Plus my name?”
“I don’t know how you ever trusted her. I can’t believe you slept with her.”
“What?”
“She told me all about it.”
“That’s not true.”
“You’re denying it?”
“If she said that, she was lying. I met her exactly once in person.”
“How can I believe you? Sounds like everything else she said was true. I don’t know why she’d lie about that.”
“Are you okay?”
“I don’t know. Depends on if I can trust you.”
“I’m telling the truth. Hailey and I never had sex. Period.”
“That’s your story and you’re sticking to it.”
“It is, and I am. And it’s the truth.”
“So you say.”
They’re both quiet a minute. Sam ends the silence.
“Guess we’re lucky she got one of them. Did you verify it was the mayor?”
“Yes.”
“I hate to lose Hailey, but it’s clear you’ve become my go-to person.”
“I’m glad you feel that way, seeing as it was just the two of us anyway.”
“I’m going to ask you a question,” Sam says. “I know the answer, but I have to ask.”
“Go ahead.”
“What happened to her car, her luggage, and so forth?”
Maybe tells him.
“You’re a natural,” Sam says.
“My turn to ask a question.”
“Okay.”
“Is your name really Sam Case?”
“Yes.”
“Why’s that a big deal?”
“Who said it was?”
“If it’s not a big deal, why haven’t you told me? You say you love me, want to have sex with me, want me to trust you, but you won’t tell me your name?”
“You call yourself Maybe. Because you may or may not stay.”
“I think you and Hailey had a thing. You told her your name.”
“Let’s move beyond this silliness. I want you, and I can tell you’re ready to be with me.”
“You’re pretty cocky.”
“And you’re pretty.”
“Are we going to meet?” Maybe says.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“Are you married?”
He pauses. “Yes.”
Maybe pauses. Then says, “Have you told your wife you want to fuck me?”
“No. But she’s got a lover. We’ve lived apart for a long time. She’s actually trying to get pregnant, and not with me.”
“Bummer.”
“Is that all you’ve got to say?”
“No. I want you to pay me the balance you owe me, and the balance you owe Hailey.”
“What right do you have to her share?”
“I saved your bacon today. You were going to pay her anyway.”
“Okay,” Sam says.
“Okay?”
“It’s reasonable. Anything else?”
“Yes. I want you to bring the money in person.”
Sam thinks a minute. “How about tomorrow night, seven o’clock?”
“Where?”
“Your place.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Are you going to bring your wife?”
“Do you want me to?”
“Not this time.”
34.
Present Day… Donovan Creed.
George Best is furious about meeting me at PhySpa this late at night, but the only other option I offered was his house, with his wife present.
“You’ll do well to hold your temper,” I say.
“Why? Are you going to rip my ear off if I don’t?”
I point to a large item on the table between us. “Ever seen one of these?”
He looks at the industrial staple gun and shrugs. He’s not impressed.
I pick it up, stand, lean my weight on it while pressing it to the table top. When I click the trigger, George jumps at the sound. When I move the gun he sees the top of a steel staple resting flush against the table top.
George plays it cool. He puts a little edge in his voice and says, “What’s so important it can’t wait till tomorrow morning?”
“The bomb that went off at Landmark and Trace?”
“What about it?”
“I was there.”
He gives me a look of disdain. “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”
“I was a witness, not a participant.”
“So?”
“The bomb was detonated by a guy in a white van.”
I’m feeding George a little piece at a time, waiting for him to either fill in the blanks or keep saying “So?”
He says, “So?”
George isn’t a tough guy, but he’s no pushover, either. Pushovers don’t contact arms dealers and mislead them about a weapon’s effectiveness.
He’s sitting there, angry, arms folded in front of his chest, working hard to keep the anger out of his voice.
“Let’s cut to the chase,” I say.
He shows me his pissed-off look. Then says, “Why are you smiling?”
I’m smiling because I realize George isn’t fighting to hold back his anger. He’s trying to hide his fear.
I say, “Tell me the truth. How much trouble are you in?”
Instead of responding, he does something that takes me completely by surprise.
He bursts into tears.
35.
George isn’t just crying, he’s sobbing. He buries his head in his arms on the table, convulsing with each sob. It strikes me this could take a while. I check my watch and wonder if I should have eaten something on the way over.
George is sitting directly across from me, but all I see are his arms and the top of his head. He’s mid forties, appears to have a nice head of hair. He’s wearing a flannel shirt, which makes me wonder how many tears it could absorb if he was sitting up instead of allowing them to leak all over my table. Of course, I can’t complain about the table. I just put a flippin’ staple in the center of it. I pick up the staple gun and inspect it, take a minute to wonder how far it can shoot, and try to guess whether it would have the ability to penetrate over distance.
George continues to sob.
I wonder what Dr. Phyllis Willis would say if she saw this beautiful table with a staple in it. In truth, I was surprised the staple “took.” I’m not a wood expert, but I thought the table top was some sort of laminate. I figured the staple would make a loud sound, maybe crack the laminate or something, but had no idea it would actually penetrate the wood. Seeing George fall apart so easily, I’m starting to think I put a hole in a perfectly good table for nothing. Then again, it felt incredibly satisfying to pull the trigger and see the result. I find myself wanting to put another staple in the table.
George is still sobbing. There’s something in his crying that doesn’t sound quite right. I focus on the staple in the table, and wonder what the best way would be to remove it.
When George stops crying I look up at him and notice he’s pointing a gun at the center of my chest.
Good thing his gun’s a semi-automatic. Unless there’s a round already in the chamber, he can’t just pull the trigger and shoot me. He’s got to manually
load the first round by racking the slide mechanism.
“Helluva gun you’ve got there,” I say.
“You think?”
“K11 Slovak. You didn’t buy that at Wal-Mart. Your arms dealer must’ve given it to you as a gift.”
“That’s right.”
“I would’ve held out for a K100 Whisper with a threaded barrel and silencer. Of course I’d never try to use either of these guns.”
He frowns. “Why not?”
“Arms dealers are notorious bastards. Your gun is probably rigged to blow up in your face.”
“You’re not going to trick me into giving up my gun.”
“Fine. Let me ask you this: what’s your arms dealer’s name?”
“Boris.”
I chuckle.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. Okay, so I’m guessing at some point Boris asked what else you have that might be for sale, right?”
“So?”
“And I’m guessing you said this is all you’ve got, right?”
George frowns again.
I say, “So we’ve got an arms dealer using a fake name who’s negotiating with a rookie on a one-shot deal. And he gives you a K11 Slovak?” I chuckle again. “Did he provide the ammunition, too?”
George says, “Whatever you’re up to, it won’t work.”
“I’m on your side here, Gumby.”
“ My side? You ripped the ears off my friend. You held us captive in this very room. You’re trying to force us to manufacture t-shirts with a stripper! We take our business very seriously, Mr. Creed.”
“Then you’ll be pleased to know I talked Mrs. Peters into selling her shares back to the company.”
“For how much?”
“Eight hundred thousand.”
“Bullshit. They’re worth at least four times that much.”
“Quick sale. Certified check. She’ll make t-shirts, you guys do whatever you want.”
“You both know too much.”
“Thanks for the compliment.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Of course. Knowing what you mean is a natural extension of knowing too much.”
“You’re half as funny as you think.”
“The eight hundred buys Gwen’s shares and her silence.”
“What about you?”
“I still want to meet Boris.”
“He’s threatening to kill my family.”
“I figured as much. That’s how they roll. Put the gun down, and we’ll talk about it.”
“No.”
I angle the staple gun slightly upward and pull the trigger. The staple hits his hand and makes him lose his grip on the gun. I jump across the table and knock it to the floor. George tries to reach beneath him to pick it up, but before his hand can find it, I’ve struck him with enough force to knock him out.
Like tearing off an ear, delivering a one-punch knockout blow requires a great deal of technique. The human brain is suspended in liquid, so a blow must be hard enough to force the brain to move through the liquid and strike the interior of the skull. The harder the brain hits the skull, the longer the victim remains unconscious. Boxers aim for the chin for several reasons. One, the mandibular nerve is located behind the hinge of the jaw, and the biomechanical response to a sudden impact is overload. Two, the jaw is the most muscular part of the face, and provides the most cushion for your fist, which allows for greater impact. Three, the chin is the furthest facial point from the brain, and affords your blow the most leverage. It makes the top of the head move faster in the opposite direction of the blow, which in turn causes the brain to pass through the liquid and hit the skull.
When George wakes up he finds himself on his back, on the conference table, unable to move. I’ve stapled the sleeves and sides of his shirt, and his pants, to the table. There’s no pain involved, but he’s understandably nervous.
“Wh-what are you going to do?” he says.
“I’m going to stop the terrorists.”
“How?”
“I’ve got a plan, but it requires some answers. Ready?”
“Yes.”
36.
“Let’s start with the chip they put in Connor Payne’s brain.”
“What about it?”
“The chip can be activated by punching a four-digit code into a wrist device that looks like a watch.”
“That’s old news.”
“Dr. Willis told the government only two wrist units were manufactured.”
“So?”
“Apparently there were five.”
“Lucky Peters told you that?”
“Yes.”
“And you believe him?”
“I do.”
“Why?”
“When a corporation’s medical director shares a bed with its largest stockholder, over time, there’s a lot more than body fluids being exchanged.”
“That’s disgusting.”
I can already account for three of the devices. My homeland security boss, Darwin, has one. Doc Howard, who placed the chip in my brain, had the second device, but sold it to me for a hundred million bucks. Dr. Phyllis Willis had the third, but I confiscated it after killing her. Which leaves two wrist devices unaccounted for. I think I know where one of them is.
“You sold one of the wrist devices to the arms dealer, correct?”
“Of course. That’s the only way to detonate the chips.”
“And you’ve got one.”
“Why would you assume that?”
“Because I know how you guys operate.”
“Whether we do or don’t, what difference does it make? All the chips are gone.”
“How many chips did you sell? Hundreds?”
“Two hundred and twelve.”
“Any idea where they are now?”
“No.”
“That’s why I want to meet Boris.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“I assume he’s reprogrammed the chips so that each is linked to a specific code.”
“Of course. And whoever he sold them to has reprogrammed them again.”
“But my ceramic device can reset those codes, correct?”
He looks confused for a minute, then says, “Holy shit!”
I smile.
George says, “Why do you need to talk to Boris?”
“I want to know what he’s done with the chips.”
“I can tell you what he’s done with them. He’s sold them to terrorist cells all over the world!”
“You think?”
“I know it for a fact.”
“Do you suppose he’s like you guys?”
“What do you mean?”
“Two hundred and twelve’s an odd number of chips. You think he sold two hundred and kept a dozen for himself?”
George says, “Now that you mention it, I think it’s a certainty.”
“I think so too. How many chips do you think each terrorist cell has in their stash?”
“Probably twenty groups have ten each.”
“Or ten have twenty.”
“Or forty have five.”
I think about it a minute, and say, “It’s more likely fifty terrorist cells have four chips each.”
“Why?”
“There are only so many times you can sew bombs into people’s mouths in the same neighborhood without attracting attention.”
George says, “You don’t need to meet Boris! If you’ve got the ceramic device, we can reprogram everything right now! We can kill Boris and a bunch of terrorists at the same time!”
George is right. I don’t need Boris. And I probably could kill dozens of terrorists in one fell swoop, assuming they’ve stashed the chips in their homes, or their clothing. Of course, there will be instances where I’m simply blowing up chips in an empty building or storage locker, or hole in the ground where they’ve been buried. But there’s a high probability key people would be killed, and probably Boris, since twelve chips going off at
the same time would kill him if he’s anywhere near his stash.
“Do you think Boris knows about the ceramic device?”
“No one knows about it.”
“Except you and the board members,” I say.
“Right. And Gwen Peters.”
“Which means a lot of people could know by now.”
“True. We’d better hurry up and change the code.”
“I can’t do that, George.”
“Of course you can! Press the button four times and blow the bastards to hell!”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I’m Connor Payne.”
He thinks about that.
“You killed Dr. Willis?”
I say nothing.
“And her staff?”
I say nothing.
He goes quiet a minute. Then says, “Are you going to kill me?”
“Probably.”
“I’ve got a family.”
“I know. And I’ve got a problem.”
“What problem?”
“As I see it, there are two ways to do this. First, I can plug the ceramic device into the wrist unit, and reprogram each of the two hundred and twelve chips, as well as the chip in my brain.”
George says, “That only works if you know the codes in advance.”
“In that case, I only have one option. Press the button on the ceramic device four times in ten seconds and blow up all the units at once.”
“Correct.”
“But when I press the four digits to kill the terrorists, I’ll boil my own brains.”
“Oh.”
“Exactly.”
He says, “You have to do it anyway.”
“What?”
“You have to sacrifice yourself. This is a chance to save not only my family, but thousands of families all over the world!”
“What kind of man would I be not to do that?” I ask.
“Exactly,” George says. “It’s a horrible situation, but it’s the right thing to do.”
“Think on it a little longer. Maybe there’s a way to reprogram the other chips while bypassing the one in my head.”
My cell phone vibrates. I walk toward the door.
“Where are you going?”
“I’ve got a call. Work on my problem till I get back.”
37.
“Bad news, Donovan,” Lou says.