Donovan Creed 11 - Because We Can! (13 page)

PART THREE: Getting to Yes

1.

Donovan Creed
.

TWO WEEKS AGO Ryan Decker demanded a billion dollars to stop writing on asses.

I wasn’t happy about Sherm’s decision two weeks ago, and I’m not happy about it now.

Of course, Sherm’s gloating.

“Where’s the attack you were expecting?” he asks. “Like I said, Decker’s a clown. It was all a big bluff.”

I disagree. Decker’s face and physical description have been shown on every TV news program, newspaper, and magazine in the country. Every day we’re hearing new stories, but no one seems to have an idea about him or where he is.

Not that there aren’t leads.

Decker sightings are coming in faster than lies from a politician. The screening system is so backed up it’ll take the FBI years to investigate everyone accused of being the Willow Lake Bomber.

I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop, while mourning Kathleen. Quietly, because Callie has jealousy issues where Kathleen is concerned. Let me catch you up: Two weeks ago Kathleen went missing. I only heard about it a few days ago, when Curly told me he was sorry it happened.

“How could you not know she’s been missing for two
weeks
?” I shouted. “You’re supposed to keep up with these things!”

He’s not, though, and neither are the other geeks. No part of their job description involves keeping up with my former girlfriends, though they tend to do it on their own time.

Curly felt awful being yelled at, and I felt awful for yelling at him. The Geeks have no love lives, and tend to live vicariously through mine. Upon meeting them, I was surprised to learn they had each picked one of my girlfriends to call their own. Larry’s favorite is Callie. C.H. favors Miranda. And Curly has always loved Kathleen. He would’ve found out about her much sooner, but I’ve been pushing them day and night to locate Ryan Decker.

To no avail.

If
they
can’t find him, the guy is good.

And I fear the country will know that fairly soon. Decker’s about to make his move. I can
feel
it.

When I told him the government refused to pay, Decker took it in stride. Didn’t get angry, didn’t make idle threats. He simply thanked me for trying, and wished me good luck and good health.

And I haven’t heard from him since.

The cops have nothing on Kathleen’s disappearance, so I hired a team of private detectives to look into the matter. Their first job was to find Addie. That took ten minutes. She’s staying with a friend. I called the mom and asked if there was anything I could do. She said no, but took my name and number and promised to call if she hears anything. I promised to do the same.

I’m not a mopey guy, but Kathleen was special to me. If Callie hadn’t revealed her feelings toward me when she did, I was on the verge of rekindling a relationship with Kathleen. When Jill asked if I could remember the name of my last fling I said, “The last one I slept with or the last one I cared about?” She said the last one I slept with.

The truth is, I remember both.

The last one I cared about was Kathleen. The last one I slept with was Faith Stallone, from Louisville, Kentucky.

I slept with both women back to back, eight weeks ago, a couple of days before Callie told me she loved me.

Not at the same time, but on the same day.

I hooked up with Kathleen when I went to visit Doctor Box about Callie’s recovery. Addie was spending the night with a friend, and Kathleen overwhelmed me at the door. I was in town, thinking of her, and in a moment of weakness decided to call to tell her I was alive, and to check up on her. As it turned out, she already knew I was alive. She begged me to come over for a drink. It was late, one drink became several, and we wound up in bed. I fell asleep, got up the next morning, showered, kissed her goodbye, and left.

That afternoon I flew to Cincinnati to meet mob boss Sal Bonadello. We chatted a few hours, during which he gave me the names of a couple of mobsters he wanted me to kill. After an early dinner, I checked into the nicest hotel in town, freshened up, and hit the bar downstairs to sip some bourbon.

Moments later I found myself ordering a drink for the hot thirty-something sitting by herself in the corner booth.

She loved my fake face and jade-green eyes. Was thoroughly convinced I was that movie star guy. I told her yeah, I get that all the time. Then I compared her to a famous actress, which didn’t hurt her mood in the least. I started to introduce myself, but she stopped me and said, “I’m just going to call you Movie Man.” She invited me to sit. I noticed her wedding ring and asked where her husband was. She said he was meeting a client, and hadn’t bothered calling to say he was running late, which was par for the course.

“Everything’s about Jake,” she said, which is why she invited me to sit with her.

“I want him to see me having a drink with someone who looks like you,” she said. “I want him to see us laughing, having a great time.”

Then she started crying.

Turns out she believed Jake may have been cheating on her.

I liked the way she looked and told her so, and pointed out there’s nothing in the world more satisfying than revenge sex. It took a couple of drinks and my best smile to get her into the men’s room for what I thought would be a quick-and-sloppy, but she wound up fucking my eyes out. Afterward, back at the table she was reeling.

“Oh, my God!” she said. “That was the best sex of my life.”

“Thanks,” I said.

She laughed. “It had nothing to do with you, Movie Man.”

“How could you have the best sex of your life and claim it had nothing to do with me?”“Like you said, it was all about the revenge. I kept thinking, ‘Oh my God, I’m in the men’s room! What if Jake comes in to pee?’ I pictured him walking in and seeing me bent over a filthy sink getting pounded from behind by a total stranger with movie star looks. I kept imagining the expression on his face and wanted him to see how good his wife can grind when she’s got a good enough reason.”

“Well, I’m glad I happened along when I did,” I said, publicly humble, while privately proud to have given a bitchy woman the fuck of her life. Just for the record, Faith was not the best sex I ever had. But she was by far the best I ever had in a men’s room.

I tried turning it into a compliment. “You were the best I ever had—”

“Who cares?” she said.

—I decided not to finish the sentence.

Faith said, “This proves one thing, though.”

“What’s that?”

“It proves I can survive outside marriage. It proves I’ve still got it.”

I nodded, and asked if she still wanted me to hang around till Jake showed up.

“No, I’m good,” she said.

“Want my real name?”

“No thanks.”

“Can I get your phone number?”

“I think not.”

I stood, bowed, and left her there.

2.

I’M IN CALLIE’S penthouse in Vegas, thinking about Kathleen, worrying about Addie. I have a strong feeling Kathleen isn’t coming back. Police say Addie was the last person to see her alive, aside from her abductor, and the mom of a fellow student was the last to hear from her. I spoke to both and got nothing.

They found Kathleen’s car several days ago at the airport. There were no prints in or on the car. No fibers, or evidence of any kind. No purse, cell phone, or personal effects.

Police can’t pull her most recent cell phone records because the cell tower blew up the same evening Kathleen went missing. The towers use data sharing, and the records are certain to exist somewhere, but without Kathleen’s phone it will be hard to isolate the most recent information in a useful way. And even if the data is recovered I doubt the records will provide any leads. I think the best they can hope for is to learn where her phone was before the battery was disconnected.

Callie and I think Decker may have abducted her. That might explain the cell tower explosion, though I’m not sure why such a severe measure would be necessary to cover up a kidnapping. But if Decker’s responsible, there’s an outside chance he’s holding her hostage.

And yet, I can’t shake the feeling she’s dead.

I hook up my cell phone to Callie’s stereo system and press the keys that take me to the one Roy Orbison song I own.

Growing up, I never “got” Roy’s voice. Didn’t appreciate it. I considered him sort of weird, and a little creepy. To me, his voice was strange and all over the place.

Then, years ago, I heard him sing
A Love So Beautiful
.

By then I was older, had more life experiences. My appreciation for music had widened to include opera. My favorite?
Nessun Dorma
, an aria from Puccini’s
Turandot
.

In November, 1988, Jeff Lynne, the genius behind ELO, produced a solo album for Roy, one month before Roy died of a heart attack. A track from that album, written by Roy and Jeff, was inspired by
Nessun Dorma
.

It’s titled,
A Love So Beautiful
.

I’m still not a big fan of Roy’s, but this timeless tribute to lost love is something special. Roy’s heartbroken, middle-aged voice soars with emotion, beauty, and grace. It may be the greatest love song ever written and performed.

But it’s not for the young, or the casual listener. It should be heard with closed eyes, and might require two or three plays to feel the pain.

Roy nails it, of course. His life was filled with tragedy and sorrow. Family members claim the only time they ever saw Roy cry was the day he listened to the studio playback of
A Love So Beautiful
, because it spoke to his heart.

I’m terribly saddened, but not heartsick over losing Kathleen. We had our time, and moved on, and shared a special night two months ago, and moved on again. But anytime a beautiful young woman dies it’s a tragedy, especially when she leaves behind a young daughter.

Yes, there’s an outside chance Kathleen’s alive.

But it’s a small one.

I never played Roy’s song for her, but I’m playing it now, while sipping bourbon. I think she would have enjoyed it. If she turns up alive, I’ll send her a copy. If not, the next 3:33 is for her.

I play the song, thinking of my special moments with Kathleen, and when it’s done, I put my feelings for her in a little box in the attic of my brain.

Then I press repeat, and play the song for me.

As it hits the halfway mark, Callie enters the room and says, “How much whiskey does it take to make that shit sound like music?”

I start to say something, then laugh, instead.

Ah, youth.

I’ve lost that, too.

3.

“YOU’RE IN A funk,” Callie says. “You know what I do when I’m in a funk?”

“Kill people?”

“Besides that.”

I think a minute. I have no idea what Callie does with her spare time, other than kill people. I wonder what that says about our relationship.

It definitely calms Callie to kill people, and to a lesser extent, I’m the same way. It’s in our blood. The problem with killing people when you’re in a funk, it’s so easy. Almost too easy. If it weren’t for our victims, you could make the case Callie and I are serial killers. Wait. That didn’t come out right. Here’s what I mean: except for gangland hits, our murders almost always involve suspected or proven terrorists. We make the occasional mistake, and collateral damage occurs from time to time, but our intentions are usually good. For us, it’s a numbers game. If we’ve killed a dozen by mistake, the hundred we killed on purpose prevented the deaths of thousands.

When Jill Whittaker-DiPiese told me I could delay the killing of her husband, I figured out a way to save most, if not all, the prisoners in their basement. Two weeks ago Callie and I went to Bobby’s house with that very intention. Had we killed him and his goons, and saved the prisoners, Callie’s right, I’d be in a better mood.

But we didn’t.

Everything seemed perfect. Joe Penny rigged up a couple of flash bombs to create a diversion. The plan? The first bomb goes off in the far corner of the backyard. The bad guys run outside to fight or take cover, facing the area of attack. One minute later, two additional bombs detonate. One in the backyard, much closer to the house, and a small one designed to blow the side door open. If all goes well, the bad guys don’t hear the side door explosion. Callie and I walk through that door, search out and shoot the bad guys using super-soakers filled with cyanogen gas.

Cyanogen causes histotoxic anemia, and a quick death for anyone we hit. The gas is effective, but tricky. Standard protocol requires a double antidote, so we typically ingest sodium thiosulphate before the attack, and amyl nitrate when fumes are present.

Prior to attacking, Callie and I took the sodium thiosulphate, as prescribed. But as luck would have it, my supplier screwed up on the amyl nitrate. No problem, there are other ways to achieve a secondary antidote. I started things off by saying, “Wish I hadn’t eaten asparagus three hours ago.”

Callie said, “Turn on your night vision goggles so you can see my expression.”

She showed me a sour look and her middle finger. Then said, “You planned this. Lucky for you we’re dating.”

“Lucky in every possible way.”

She said, “I’ll take a wild guess and assume you want to watch me do this?”

“How could I not?”

Callie squatted and peed into two handkerchiefs, and we tied them tightly to our faces. While not as effective as amyl nitrate, a urine-soaked handkerchief will serve as a secondary antidote for Cyanogen gas fumes.

So there we were. Bombs ready to explode, cyanogen gas weapons at the ready, night-vision goggles in place, urine-soaked handkerchiefs covering our faces….

The bombs went off on schedule, Callie and I burst through the side door….

But no one was home.

We checked the entire house and basement and found no evidence of prisoners, chains, or torture, but the scent of bleach was so strong in the basement we nearly passed out.

“I don’t get it,” I said. “There are six cars in the driveway.”

“When did you think to check for people?” Callie said, with attitude.

“Four hours ago Joe reported six vans on the property, and numerous goons moving around inside the house. He came back an hour ago to set the timers. The vans and people were still on the property, and he made a positive ID of Bobby DiPiese.”

“Someone at Baton Rouge PD must have alerted him earlier today. He and his goons probably spent the whole evening killing prisoners, scrubbing the place down. Lucky bastards must have loaded the vans with bodies and hauled ass minutes before we got here.”

When you expect to kill goons and get a face full of urine instead, you tend to feel cheated.

I called Larry, the dwarf, and had him run a trace on Bobby, but after a couple of days he informed me Bobby had vanished, which means he’s probably with Decker.

Now, in Vegas, Callie’s staring at me.

What were we talking about?

Oh yeah. She asked if I knew what she does when she’s in a funk.

Suddenly I remember something she likes to do. “You dance,” I say.

She laughs. “Not when I’m feeling blue. And I certainly wouldn’t recommend it as therapy for you, since you hate dancing more than anyone I ever met.” She sighs. “Now that we’re a couple I suppose I’ll have to give it up.”

“I’ll dance with you on your birthdays,” I say.

She gives me a questioning look, to see if I’m serious. When she realizes I am, her look changes to a level of joy that seems way out of context for such a simple concession on my part. Makes me glad I offered.

“You’ve surprised me,” she says.

“I’m full of surprises. So tell me. What do you do when you’re in a funk?”

“I buy shit,” she says.

“Like what, clothes?”

“Clothes, cars, guns, electronics—whatever suits my pleasure.”

She studies my face and posture and says, “But you’re not much of a shopper. You’d probably prefer sex.”

I smile. “Bingo!”

“Shall we to the bedroom go?” she says, with a song in her voice.

“Let’s do,” I say, rising to the occasion in two different ways.

“I’ve been practicing,” she says.

“Uh oh.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’ve been practicing? That’s three words a boyfriend never likes to hear.”

She laughs. “That came out wrong. What I mean is, I’ve been practicing in my mind.”

“Good for you!”

“Wait. There’s more!”

“Tell me.”

“I watched some light porn without gagging. And took notes.”

I don’t comment, but I’m glad to hear she’s working on it. Callie may not be great in bed, but I’d rather have bad sex with her than great sex with anyone else. I’ve never complained, and never will, but Callie knows she’s been coming up short in the bedroom. Every time we have sex she promises to do a better job next time. It’s not something I worry about. I’m okay with how things are. I know it’s not easy for her, and I’m just so damned honored and grateful to be in bed with her at all.

Having said that, this time it’s different.

She’s kissing me differently. Touching me differently. Her movements are all out of character, but our bodies are synching better than ever before.

Let me explain.

Women like Callie don’t make the best lovers. She’s drop-dead gorgeous, and never had to learn how to please a man. On the other hand, women like Kathleen, who don’t have runway model looks, take the time to learn how to kiss and move and satisfy a man in a way that transcends their looks. In public, Kathleen was cute, quiet, and practically nerdy. She wasn’t athletic. But put her between two sheets and she turned into a panther.

Kathleen was a 10 in bed.

Callie’s extremely athletic. Possibly too athletic to have great sex with a man. Or maybe I’m just saying that because she has a long history of preferring women to men. She and I both slept with Gwen Peters, a former stripper, and Gwen told me quite candidly that Callie is ten times the lover I am. So I know she’s great with women. But with me, not so much.

Her mental hang ups with men started early in life, when she was a victim of child rape. As a teenager, while strapped to her bed in a mental hospital, she was sexually assaulted almost daily by orderlies. As an adult she used sex as a means to get close enough to kill the world’s most dangerous men.

These issues, and others, cause her to hold back.

And that’s putting it mildly.

When having sex with me, Callie becomes catatonic.

She’ll let me touch her, but when I do her body becomes one giant muscle. Tense, taut, eyes squeezed shut, a grimace on her face. She’s got a world-class face and body, but she gives off a vibe like she’s being molested. The first time we did it I asked if she was in pain. Then I asked if everything was okay. “Why wouldn’t it be?” she said. “We’re making love.”

But it didn’t feel like we were.

Afterward, when I was done, she continued to lie there, as if she thought I was still on top of her. When I pointed out it was over, she said, “I loved it! Thank you!”

The second time we made love it was more of the same. I decided not to tell her I was finished. I climbed off her and watched her face. She continued wincing for more than five minutes before realizing it was over.

“How long have you been finished?” she said, genuinely curious.

“Five minutes.”

“Could you do me a favor next time?”

“Name it.”

“Could you tap out when you’re done?”

“Excuse me?”

“You know, like in MMA, when the guy getting beat taps out? It means he’s had enough. Time to quit. Just tap my shoulder.”

“Uh…okay.”

Like I said, I’ve got no complaints because I love her. And I understand it’s a process.

This time it starts amazingly. She’s touching me in such a way that…well, I don’t want you to think I’ve got Kathleen on the brain, but if I didn’t know better, I’d swear Kathleen was doing the touching. But as I start to reciprocate, she slowly starts to go stiff, and before long I have to work around her pained expression, lack of warmth, passion, and movement.

My mind drifts to the bathroom encounter I had with Faith Stallone. Faith was a total bitch, but she moved like a woman possessed. Vertically, she was an iceberg. But bend her over a sink and you’ve got a totally different animal. And I do mean animal! That woman had fire in her panties!

I’m fucking Callie, thinking of Faith. Don’t misunderstand: I have zero interest in Faith, but I’m picturing her. It’s….

It’s a guy thing.

When I’m done, I open my eyes, tap out. Callie shakes her head, as if coming out of a trance. “Better?” she says, hopefully.

“You were amazing!” I say.

“Was it the best sex you ever had?”

“I think it was,” I say, lying through my teeth.

“I
told
you!” she said. “And I’m going to keep getting better and better.”

That shouldn’t be difficult
, I think.

We’re semi-asleep in each other’s arms. As long as I’m not touching her in a sexual way, she’s as warm and playful as a puppy. I sleep a little, wake a little, breathing in her scent. There’s no place on earth I’d rather be.

Shortly after 1:00 a.m., Vegas time, my phone rings.

Sherm Phillips, Secretary of Defense.

I put him on speaker.

“What’s up, Sherm?”

“Ryan Decker.”

“What about him?”

“He struck.”

I rise to a sitting position. “How bad is it?”

“It could be worse.”

“Tell me.”

“He wiped out a small neighborhood.”

“How small?”

“Eight houses, they think.”

“Where?”

“Louisville, Kentucky.”

“Any casualties?”

“Yes.”

“Shit. How many?”

“We’re working on it. When can you get there?”

“Four hours, give or take.”

“Let me know what you find.”

I hang up, turn toward Callie.

She’s gone!

She was here a few seconds ago, now she’s gone. Yes, I was concentrating on the call, but I never saw her move, and never felt it.

She’s a true ninja.

I hear the toilet flush, the shower turn on.

That’s Callie.

She’ll be ready to roll inside ten minutes. And that includes packing.

What a helluva woman she is!