A Girl Like You - John Locke

Her comment gave me the briefest pause, but I quickly put it out of my mind when she shouted “Harder!” I obliged her, and abruptly she said, “Time’s up.”

“What?”

“That’s it. Time’s up.”

“But—”

She reached behind her and pushed me out. Then she turned to face me, got on her knees, and said, “Close your eyes, Kevin, because this is something you’re never going to forget.”

I did as she said, closed my eyes, and within seconds I was on fire.

“What the hell?”

She’d put horse liniment on Bullshit! My crotch smoldered for hours afterward, which proved her right about our first time being something I’d never forget. On the ride home I said, “Why would you do that to me?”

“To make you like me.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“If you still want to see me after today, it proves you like me.”

“Can you explain the concept a little clearer?”

“You’ve been with hundreds of women, right?”

“I don’t keep count,” I said.

“Whatever, stud guy. But you’ve had plenty.”

“So?”

“So you probably did some of them because they were easy, and some you probably cared about enough to create a romantic scene, like you did for me today.”

“So?”

“So I bet each woman played along, said and did all the things she was supposed to, and when it was over, you were proud of your conquest. But then you stopped to wonder if she was really as special as you’d thought. And maybe you dumped her, or maybe you stayed with her until the next pretty face came along, and then that one became your challenge.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I took you off your game, hot shot, and out of your routine. I didn’t do it to prove I’m special, I did it because I am special. And now, instead of wondering if you want to see me again, you’re going to realize you have to see me again.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because you’re a sick puppy, and what you crave isn’t the sex, but the unexpected.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The minute you can predict a woman’s behavior, you get bored. You hit the jackpot with me, because even I don’t know what I’m going to do or say next.”

I chewed on that for awhile, and then asked what she meant back in the tack room when she’d said, “If only mommy could see me now!”

She said, “Mommy died right after daddy, when I was a kid. She didn’t have to die, but that’s what junkies do, even when they’ve got a kid to raise. So there I was today, cheating on my husband, bent over a filthy saddle, getting pounded from behind in a barn, like a mare in heat. Don’t you suppose mommy would be proud of me?”

Back on the plane now, in real time, I suddenly realize what I’d been missing. There’s something I have to do.

I pick up the handset and tell the pilot to land in Atlanta. Then I call Jarvis, and tell him I need his car. When we land, Jarvis is already there. I ask him to wait on the plane with Callie until I return.

33.

Forty-five minutes later I’m in a nice area of Atlanta. It could be any major city, but it happens to be Atlanta. It’s well past any normal person’s bedtime, so I don’t expect Sherry Cherry to be awake. And if she is awake, I don’t expect her to be sober.

For this reason, instead of calling her on the phone, I break into her house.

Sherry’s married name was Birdsong. Personally, I think Birdsong is a great name. But Sherry never liked it. Said it had no pizzazz. So when her husband died shortly after their wedding, she went back to using her maiden name.

Now I’m in the living room and, as I suspected, Sherry Cherry is lying on the couch, strung out on drugs. The only reason she has a house at all is that I bought one and allow her to live here, rent free.

I park myself in the love seat that faces the couch. The coffee table between us is littered with empty beer bottles, a weed pipe, syringes, zip lock bags of coke, and assorted drug paraphernalia. Sherry is wearing boxers, white with red hearts, and an oversized men’s dress shirt that also happens to be white, except for the stains. The odor of old booze and weed hit me the moment I entered, but now all I can smell is Sherry’s urine. At some point in the day or evening she must have pissed herself enthusiastically. Judging from the stain in her boxers and on the couch, it didn’t appear to be a recent accident.

I tried to get Sherry into rehab once, but she was too far gone. She checked herself out within an hour after I left. Thinking about Rachel on the jet awhile ago, remembering what she’d said that day in Kentucky after our first time, about how her mother had died because “that’s what junkies do,” my thoughts turned to Sherry Cherry. I can’t save Rachel tonight, and the fact that Lou can’t turn up a single piece of information regarding Rachel’s whereabouts forces me to consider the possibility I might never see her again.

So I may or may not be able to save the woman I love.

But I can certainly try to save this junkie.

Sherry Cherry is only forty-six. Though she’s lived a hard life, she’s well put together. Even so, I’m not the least bit aroused when I carry her to her bed, strip her, and give her a sponge bath. She’s a nasty mess, and there’s nothing sensual about the experience. When I finally get her scrubbed, I dress her in a clean pair of panties, sweat pants, a cotton tee, and light jacket. Then I pack a small bag of clothes and toiletries she won’t be able to access anytime soon. I put her over my shoulder, carry her to the car, pour her into the passenger seat, and drive to the runway where I’d been dropped off less than two hours ago.

“Who’s this?” Callie says.

“Friend of the family.”

“You forgot to brush her teeth.”

“You’re right.”

“If we keep this up,” she says, “they’re going to run out of beds at Sensory.”

“Actually, this one gets a padded room.”

Callie yawns. “Can we go now?”

“Yes. After I make a quick call from Jarvis’s car.”

34.

My old friend Doc Howard is a wealthy man, but not so wealthy he can afford to turn down the opportunity to make a quick hundred million dollars.

“Are we on a secure line?” Doc Howard says.

“Yes. On my side, for certain,” I say.

“Mine as well. I have an independent group run a check each week.”

“How did you find them?”

“They’re ex-CIA. They hate this new bunch I work for at Sensory.”

“How do you know these old guys aren’t monitoring your line?”

“They could care less what’s on my plate. They need quiet doctoring, and I need quiet phone privileges.”

I don’t need to wonder why Doc Howard needs privacy apart from the things he does for Sensory Resources. After all, he just told me he had some information that was worth a hundred million dollars. I’m sitting in Jarvis’s car on the tarmac at the government’s restricted airstrip near Atlanta. Callie and the others are on board the jet, waiting for me. I had called Doc Howard to ask about the sudden, intense pain I experienced at the park on Friday night while carrying Frankie the snake, and again a few hours ago in Jane’s bedroom. I also wanted to make arrangements at Sensory for our new guests.

But I hadn’t gotten either comment out of my mouth before Doc Howard said, “I’m glad you resurfaced. And with all this money!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say.

“I had an interesting visit with Sam Case today,” he says. “By the way, Sam hates you.”

“He was probably just angry about the snake bite.”

“That too, but he also mentioned you recently put him out of business, stole his wife, and netted about three billion dollars.”

“Sam’s been known to exaggerate,” I say.

“Nevertheless, I’m sure you can spare a hundred million.”

“First, let me tell you what I need tonight,” I say. “Wait. Are you trying to blackmail me?”

“I’m not insane, Donovan.”

“Then what do you mean?”

“If I tried to blackmail you, I’d be dead within minutes. This is completely different. I have information to sell. It’s up to you if you don’t want to utilize it.”

“I’m intrigued,” I say, wondering what on earth he could know that would be worth a hundred million dollars to me.

“So what do you need tonight?” he says.

“Callie Carpenter and I are bringing you three more guests. I’d like you to strap Jane and Bernard Asprin to hospital beds, and keep them generally sedated until I have a better use for them.”

“And the third guest?”

“We’ll call her Paula Asprin,” I say. “I want her in a padded cell. She’s a junky. I want to get her clean, and I don’t care what it takes. Push her as hard as you need to, without killing her.”

“I’m not an expert at drug rehabilitation,” he says.

“Then hire someone who is. I’ll foot the tab.”

“And a high tab it will be,” he says.

“I want you to meet us tonight,” I say, “and after the others are put to bed, I need you to personally draw three vials of blood from Paula. I want you to personally analyze each of them separately, and privately, and only you and I will know about either the blood work or the results.”

“I can do that,” he says. “Anything else?”

“I don’t want Lou to know about Paula,” I say.

“No problem.”

“How can you keep this information from Lou? I don’t work there anymore.”

“Actually, you do. Your office is still here, your sleeping cell, and have you noticed? We’re still doing your bidding.”

“I have noticed. But I thought all this went through Lou.”

“It has been going through Lou up to now. But according to Darwin, you’re still Lou’s boss. And as you know, Darwin rules.”

That he does. In all the years I’ve worked for the government, from the Army to the CIA to Homeland Security—I’ve never encountered a person who wielded the type and degree of power Darwin does. Need a jet? Darwin can get you an air craft carrier full of them. Want to mess around with a secret weapon? A prototype that’s never been used in the field? Call Darwin, and it’ll be on your front porch in an hour. Need a mess cleaned up? Like twelve civilians were accidentally killed because we blew up the wrong building? Darwin makes a few calls, bam! No investigation.

“And what did Darwin tell the fine folks at Sensory?” I ask.

“About?”

“About me?”

“He said you were taking a break, but if you ever need something, we’re to do it without asking questions.”

“What if I ask you to do something that hurts them?”

He chuckles. “Which brings us to the hundred million dollar question.”

“Okay,” I say. “Shoot.”

“It can wait till you get here,” he says.

“I remain intrigued,” I say.

After ending the call I enter the jet, thank Jarvis for the use of his car, and remind him to stay close to Roger Asprin’s daughter, Ellen. After he drives away, our jet takes off.

35.

The Asprins have been situated. Callie’s gone to bed. Doc Howard and I are with Sherry Cherry, in a windowless examination room. He’s drawing blood from her arm. When we’re done, she’ll be put in a room with padded walls and flooring.

“What kind of information is worth a hundred million dollars?” I say.

“The chip.”

“What chip?”

“This is a little awkward for me.”

“Give it your best shot.”

“Okay. You remember when you were my patient here at Sensory?”

“Of course. They made you give me a new face.”

“They also made me put a chip in your brain that can be accessed by satellite.”

“What? You’re shitting me!”

“It’s not the sort of thing I would joke about,” Doc Howard says.

“Can you prove it?”

“I don’t have to. You can get a CAT scan from anyplace you choose. You’ll see it.”

“So what does this mean? They can find me wherever I go?”

Doc Howard removes the needle from Sherry’s arm and holds a cotton tab to it for twenty seconds. Then he tapes the tab in place and wraps the tape around her arm to keep it tight.

“I assume you want these results ASAP?” he says.

“Yes. And no other eyes get to see it.”

“No problem.”

“How many hours will it take?”

“Not hours. Days.”

“What? How many?”

“Three. And trust me, that’s a blisteringly fast turn-around.”

I had to trust him. What do I know about analyzing blood?

“Not to stray from the subject, Doc, but about this chip in my head. They want to know where I am at all times?”

“No. This particular chip is programmed to heat when activated.”

I grab his throat with my thumb and index finger. If I squeeze a little harder, he dies. Doc Howard’s eyes are bugging out.

“Is this the cause of the headaches I’ve been experiencing? Did you do that to me?”

He tries to respond, but can’t. I release him.

“Jesus, Creed. That happened in less than an eye blink!”

“Try to remember that, next time you fuck with me.”

Doc Howard rubs his throat. “Now I know how the mouse feels when the snake strikes.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“Yes, I’m responsible. The first time was a test. The second was to confirm.”

“Test and confirm what?”

“If I had the right information, and if it worked.”

“So you’re saying what, they can torture me? How hot will this chip get when they flip the switch?”

“I’ll paint you a picture. Have you ever shot a guy and the bullet remained in the body?”

“For the sake of argument, let’s assume I have.”

“In such a case, the bullet is red hot. Molten-fire hot. So hot it boils the surrounding tissue until the blood itself cools the bullet.”

I’m pretty good with pain. If he’s talking about the pain a boiling bullet would make in my brain, I can probably handle that. Have, in fact, handled it twice. And the second time was a little easier.

But then Doc Howard says, “The chip I installed is ten times worse. They flip the switch, you’re dead within a minute.”

“From heat?”

“With every passing second, the chip gets hotter. It will take less than a minute to liquefy your brain.”

“Well, how nice of you to put that in my head! Were you ever going to tell me?”

“It’s Darwin’s news to tell,” he says.

“The way I see it, you’ve given me the information, but I haven’t paid you yet.”

“True.”

“So what’s the hundred million dollars for?”

“Ask me if I can remove the chip from your brain.”