John Locke - Lethal Experiment

“Something like that.”

I had a sudden thought.

“You’re not sleeping with Chavez, too, are you?”

“Fuck you!”

“All right, simmer down,” I said. “I’m just trying to figure out how complicated this is.”

“As far as Chavez is concerned, he and I are colleagues, nothing more. When he worked Atlanta, we met twice a year for drinks. I was careful when asking about Eva.”

“I believe you. Otherwise, she’d be dead.”

Callie eyed me carefully, as if trying to read something in my face. Finally, she said, “If you can’t talk to Darwin, what’s left?”

“I can try to talk Tara into quitting.”

“What?”

“Like you said, she’s a mess. Maybe she’s had enough.”

“If she has, she’d already be retired.”

“Sometimes people need a nudge.”

“Would you even know how to find her without Darwin’s help?”

“I think so,” I said. “We’ve got some history.”

“I heard that ended badly,” Callie said, lifting her index finger to the side of her cheek to mimic the angry scar that runs from the top of my cheek to the middle of my neck.

I shrugged. “Some people wear tattoos.”

Callie laughed. “Boston’s a pretty big city,” she said.

“It is.”

“But you know something about Tara, something you learned when you were sleeping with her?”

I nodded.

Callie mulled that over. “What if she says no?”

“Then we go to plan B,” I said.

“Which is?”

“Kill her.”

Callie leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. The one with the scar.

“Thanks, Donovan,” she said. “Once again, you’ve saved my life.”

Such as it is , I thought.

Chapter 22

“ The walls moved?” Kathleen said. “How?”

“It was like a Hollywood movie set,” I said. “There are five different scenes, with three sets of walls and two ceilings. One of the ceilings has crystal chandeliers.”

“But how does everything switch?” she said.

“They just quietly slide into place.”

“And dinner was good?” she said.

“You’d love it!” I said. “I’ll take you there sometime.”

“Tell me about it now, though.”

“Okay. There was a seafood tower with a sculpture of a seahorse. There were three levels of oysters on the half shell, and some of the display shells had real pearls in them!”

“And the lady you had dinner with?”

Oh oh , I thought. “What about her?”

“How old is she?”

I scrunched up my face. “Hard to tell.”

This was one of those times you had to weigh the benefits of honesty versus happiness. There wasn’t much incentive to tell the truth, since first of all, I wasn’t having an affair, and secondly, Callie and Kathleen would probably never meet. And even if they did meet, Callie would never rat me out. Our secrets were safe. We had each others’ backs.

I looked Kathleen right in the eye, the way President Clinton taught me, and I said, “Honey, Mrs. Calloway has to be at least sixty.”

“Sixty,” she said.

“At least. Maybe sixty-five.”

“And why did she need you to fly all the way to Vegas to take her to dinner and a show?”

“I told you that already. Her husband got sick. They had tickets for the show and dinner reservations. He’s one of my bosses. I felt obligated.”

“Hmm,” she said. “But it does sound as though you had a good time.”

“I put on a brave face,” I said.

Kathleen had trust issues, courtesy of her first husband, Ken Chapman. I could tell she was struggling with my explanation. I figured it was time to put her out of her misery.

I slapped my forehead with my hand.

“What,” she said, “you could have had a V-8?”

“I just remembered. I have a picture of me and Mildred.”

“Mildred?”

“Mildred Calloway. Our waiter took a picture of us on my cell phone.”

“At Switch?”

“Uh huh.”

“Why?”

“This is sort of embarrassing,” I said, working it shamelessly, “but Mildred thinks I’m cute. She wanted to forward a picture of us to her girlfriend in Seattle, so she could pretend she had a hot date with a younger man.”

“Gimme the phone,” Kathleen said. “I want to see the picture of you and the babe.”

I clicked through some images on my phone and passed it to her.

“Here you go,” I said.

When Kathleen saw the photo her face lit up.

“Aww,” she said. “Mildred’s adorable !”

“You’re cuter,” I said, just to prove there was no depth to which I wouldn’t sink.

“Look at that smile,” she said. “You can tell she’s having a ball. Aww, you’re a good sport, honey.”

“Thank you.”

“Is that the seafood tower in the background?”

“It is. I should have gotten a close up for you.”

Before giving me the camera back she clicked the advance button to see if there were any additional pictures. There weren’t.

Then she clicked back one, to check the previous picture, which happened to be a shot of her and Addie playing during the in-home visit with the adoption lady, Patty Feldson.

“I didn’t know you took this picture,” Kathleen said.

“I couldn’t help myself,” I said. “It was a great moment for us.”

She smiled the most wonderful smile and said, “I love the way you said that: Us.”

Kathleen looked sad for a moment.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I thought maybe you’d been cheating on me.”

“With Mildred?”

“No, honey. With some hot babe from Vegas. And all the time you were just being a nice guy. Can you believe I wouldn’t trust you? How crazy is that?” she said.

Compared to all the shit I’ve done ? I thought. Not so crazy .

“So,” I said, looking at the door that led to her bedroom. “You think maybe we could…”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Why not?”

“I’m worried you might be thinking of Mildred while making love to me.”

“What?”

She burst into laughter and dragged me to bed.

At the most appropriate point thereafter, I murmured “Mildred, oh, Mildred !”

Kathleen laughed and said, “Maybe you should do it with Mildred. If you do, make sure she’s on top.”

“Why’s that?”

“So you can see what it feels like to have old age creeping up on you.”

Chapter 23

The Huntington, West Virginia sky was dark and menacing, like an angry panther pacing its cage. Mourners kept a wary eye on the rumbling thunderheads, with good reason: lightning had already killed one golfer the day before, less than a mile from this very spot. Which meant some of these people would have a second chance to wear their black suits this week.

Jerry Beck, father of Charlie and devoted alumnus of Marshall University, had years ago purchased several prime burial plots under a giant, black-barked chestnut oak tree in Spring Hill Cemetery near the Marshall Memorial.

Jerry had been proud to score such elegant eternal accommodations at the time, only he didn’t figure to need them so soon.

The Marshall Memorial honors the football team, coaches and supporters who perished in the famous plane crash of 1970. Like the Memorial and the oak tree, Charlie’s grave site was located on the highest point of the cemetery, overlooking the City of Huntington and the Marshall University campus. Kimberly, Kathleen and I followed the mourners up the hill. As we passed the Memorial I noticed six unmarked graves commemorating the plane crash victims whose remains were never identified.

I wondered how many of Charlie’s victims had never come forward to be identified. I wondered if Kimberly might have been the next. I gave her hand a squeeze.

More than two hundred people showed up for the burial, making it the largest turnout I’d ever seen. Had the weather been better, twice as many might have shown. Kimberly attributed the large numbers to Charlie’s popularity, but I suspected it was something else. I mean, you don’t have to be a local to figure out which way the shit rolled in this part of the country. In West-by-God-Virginia, it rolled downhill, starting with the governor and Jerry Beck.

I was appropriately somber for the occasion, but it didn’t keep me from noticing things. Like how many people had shown up, how many kept glancing at the sky and how many men were holding purses.

I wore a dark suit and black aviator sunglasses, and held my arm around Kimberly and did my best to comfort her. Kimberly was having a rough time. She kept sobbing and burying her face into my side. The wind whipped the women’s dresses mercilessly, and those who wore hats needed both hands to keep hat and dress in place—which explained why so many husbands held their wives’ purses.

My ex-wife, Janet, stood brooding a few yards away. On the few occasions we happened to catch each others’ eyes I saw storms in her face that could have scared the shit out of Katrina.

If my being at the funeral upset Janet—and it did—Kathleen’s presence infuriated her. Janet didn’t have to stare long at my girlfriend to realize this was not the woman who met her months ago, claiming to have been brutally beaten by Ken Chapman, Janet’s fiancé at the time. It was that meeting that ended Janet’s relationship with Chapman. Janet always suspected I played a small part in her breakup, but only now realized I’d orchestrated the whole thing.

I looked at her small, patent leather purse and wondered what secrets might lie within. Specifically I wondered if she was still carrying the Taurus 85 Ultra Lite .38 special I’d bought her years ago. If so, I might need my own burial plot by the end of today’s service.

The group closed in around the grave site and the local pastor made some remarks about life and death and doorways, and healing and belief and loved ones and the hereafter. Family members placed roses on the casket as it was lowered into the ground. Once in place, the preacher took a small shovel and scattered some dirt onto it. A few words were exchanged between the parents and the cemetery director. The director pointed at the sky and then at the two men standing in the distance holding shovels. Jerry Beck spoke quietly to the preacher and the decision was made to begin filling in the hole before the storm broke. I thought they did this sort of thing with a backhoe, and figured they would, as soon as the funeral party left.

Jerry and Jennifer Beck stood beside the grave and prayed a few minutes before walking over to the Marshall Memorial, where they planned to accept condolences from friends and family. The air had a stillness, as if all hell was about to break loose above us.

Kimberly had never met Charlie’s parents, so she wanted to introduce herself. She needed a hug, as she put it, and needed to be hugged. In her mind, but for Charlie’s death, she would have someday been Jerry and Jennifer’s daughter-in-law. Kimberly, Kathleen and I watched the mourners form a long line that began moving quickly. Janet did not budge from her dark place, content to cast baleful looks at me and Kathleen. I kept an eye on her hand and purse. Twenty yards behind us the grave diggers were moving dirt faster than I would have thought possible. I watched them work a few minutes, until the Bobcat backhoe appeared, looked at the Becks and wondered how they felt about the grave being filled in at this point. They probably realized it was the prudent thing to do.

As the line of well-wishers dwindled, Kimberly said, “Come with me, Daddy. I need to say something to them.”