John Locke - A Girl Like You

“No, they don’t.”

“What, you’re just going to let some child get abused? Some guy get mugged? Some woman get raped? Some terrorist blow up a building?”

Miranda arches an eyebrow.

That last one just slipped out. Miranda doesn’t know that for twelve years I was the CIA’s deadliest assassin. Nor is she aware that after leaving the CIA I devoted several years to hunting down and killing suspected terrorists for a clandestine branch of Homeland Security.

“Terrorists?” she says. “That’s quite a jump. You began speaking of saving a family unit, man, woman or child. Suddenly you’re talking about saving the nation. What’s next, the world?”

How did I justify all that killing? I honestly believed I was keeping the world safe.

And still believe it.

So maybe she’s onto something. Maybe I am an extreme case.

Miranda’s brilliant. Hard to believe she’s not a licensed psychotherapist. She certainly will be, some day when she’s older. She’s working toward her Master’s Degree in Counseling Psychology at NYU. She’s been studying psychoanalysis and psychotherapy for years. She’s observing me now. Sees I’ve grown pensive. She frowns.

“I’m sorry, Donovan. I think I may have gone too far.”

“No, you were great. Sometimes I forget how good you are at this.”

“Thanks. But these sessions are really about you.”

I nod.

“Are we terminating the counseling session, then?” she asks.

“We are.”

Miranda smiles. “So I can remove these glasses?”

“Yes. Along with the rest of your clothes.”

Miranda is not a full-fledged hooker. She’s a brilliant student trying to get through college without having to take out a school loan. Her client base is limited to the wealthiest of the wealthy, and to my ultimate sorrow, she has no intention of hooking after she gets her degree. I already miss her. Because in addition to my hero complex, I have abandonment issues.

When I’m in town, Miranda gets a hotel room like the one we’re in today. The first time I met her she told me about her course of study, and I thought it would be fun to role play.

Turns out she was damn good at it.

Too good, in fact.

I have to be careful so she won’t figure out how screwed up I really am. I mean, I’ve got more issues than Kleenex has tissues.

A couple weeks ago Miranda added a client. She took a chance on a wealthy young man with anger issues who owns a successful brokerage firm across town. He called her filthy names and broke her nose.

Miranda quickly removes her clothes and stands before me in her bra and panties. She knows I’m a Time Saver, a person who likes to commit special moments to memory. A skilled Time Saver can freeze all the components of an event—the date, mood, time, temperature, lighting, sights, sounds, scents—everything. Then we store this information in a box in our brains and relive it whenever we wish. It’s like opening a time capsule years after an event and having all the wonderful memories spill out.

Amanda knows this about me, and waits while I take it all in. After a moment, I nod.

She removes her bra and waits.

I nod.

She removes her panties and waits.

And waits.

Eventually I motion her to turn around.

She does.

After a few seconds she looks back at me over her shoulder.

I nod.

She turns to face me.

“Want me to take your clothes off?” she says.

“No, I’m good.”

I kick off my gym shoes, pull off my socks, then stand to remove my clothes. I take her hand and hold it. I lift it to about a foot from my face, and turn it over, palm-side up. I stroke the back of her fingers before kissing her hand. Then I lean close to her, capturing her scent. Her hair is cropped just below the ear. I brush against it with my cheek.

“Did you break his nose for me?” she says.

“I did.”

After Billy King punched her, Miranda couldn’t go to the police and file an assault report because she’d been soliciting at the time of the incident. So she did the next best thing: waited for me to come to town.

“Was he humiliated?” she says.

“That wasn’t my intent.”

“I know,” she says. “But was he?”

“I think so.”

“Thanks, Donovan.”

We embrace, then kiss.

She starts leading me to the bedroom, then stops, turns to me and says, “Is he afraid?”

“He was unconscious when I left. But yeah, he’s going to live in fear awhile.”

She smiles. “Good boy, Donovan. Good, good boy. You’ve made me very happy. Would you like a doggy treat?”

Miranda has some issues of her own.

6.

It’s noon and I’m in my own hotel room, pouring a sensible amount of single-barrel bourbon into the bar glass I’ve thoroughly cleaned for the occasion. Some people prefer the uniform flavor of “small batch” bourbon. I’m on board if it’s Pappy Van Winkle’s 20-year-old family reserve. Otherwise, I’m a single-barrel guy.

I hold the glass up and watch the amber liquid through the light as it dances in the glass.

Those who hate bourbon were likely assaulted at some point in their lives by Standard Bourbon, which is rough, and harsh, and made by dumping the contents of all the warehouse barrels together. Judging bourbon by such criteria is like comparing Justin Bieber to Elvis.

I take a sip and let it play in my mouth while I savor the sweet caramel flavor.

Bourbon takes on the distinctive taste of not just the charred, white-oak barrel it ages in, but also the location in the warehouse where the barrel is stored. The best barrels age in the heart of the warehouse, to be lovingly influenced by Kentucky’s variable seasons. “Small batch” is made by blending the finest barrels. “Single barrel” is made by bottling the prime barrels individually. Each is unique, but all are excellent.

I swallow my bourbon and feel the warm kick as it hits the back of my throat. I take another sip, and think about Miranda.

Miranda may be a student in the classroom, but she’s a teacher in the bedroom. I offered to immerse myself in her subject matter for the remainder of the day, but she had an afternoon class. We ordered a couple of sandwiches from room service and ate an early lunch. Then I headed back to my hotel, fired up my computer, checked my investments, and ordered tickets for the eight p.m. showing of Jersey Boys at the August Wilson on West 52 nd.

Miranda lives in Brooklyn but has never seen the show. Always wanted to, she says, but never got around to it. Most nights she’s studying, or entertaining wealthy married clients who can’t afford to be seen in public. She has a couple of clients who are single, but they prefer her physical skills to her conversational abilities.

Not me. I love taking her out. I’m thinking pre-theatre dinner at Del Frisco’s. After the show, we’ll go somewhere fancy and spend an outrageous sum on a couple of terrible drinks, and finish the evening at her place, if it pleases her to be romantic.

I look up the restaurant’s phone number on my laptop. As I’m reaching for my cell phone, it rings.

Few people have my number. Nadine Crouch, my former psychiatrist, is one of them. Nadine looks after the mental health of my long-time girlfriend, Rachel Case. If Nadine’s calling, it can only mean one thing: Rachel’s having an episode. I answer the phone.

“How bad is it this time, Nadine?”

“ Donovan! Thank God! ”

She seems to be hyperventilating.

“Take a deep breath,” I say. “It can’t be that bad.”

It isn’t.

It’s worse.

She pauses a moment, then says, “Rachel’s been kidnapped!”

“What?”

My heart drops into free fall.

Nadine struggles to form the words. “A group of armed men burst into the apartment around four in the morning. They grabbed Rachel, injected something into her, and carried her off.”

“Who?”

“They carried her right out the back door!”

“Did they say anything?”

“No words were spoken that I could hear.”

“Did you try to stop them?”

“I was in my room, she was in hers. They attacked us at the same time.”

“How did you get away?”

“I didn’t. They injected something into me.”

I look at my watch. “This happened twelve hours ago? Jesus, Nadine, they could be anywhere in the world by now.”

She says something I don’t hear. I ask her to repeat it.

“Not twelve hours ago, Donovan.”

“What do you mean?” I look at my watch again. “Louisville’s on Eastern time, right?” “Yes.” There’s a short pause, and then she says, “But the attack was three days ago.”

I close my eyes, stunned. My stomach feels like it’s been gripped by an iron fist. Something’s burning my throat, trying to get out. Something made out of ice and bile. I swallow it back down, and wince. This is what I fear most in all the world, that one of my enemies would locate my loved ones and use them to force me to do something I don’t want to do.

And that’s best-case scenario.

Worst case is they want nothing from me, except revenge.

“Why the hell didn’t you call me sooner?”

“Nothing would have pleased me more, believe me,” she said, icily. “But I’ve been dead, off and on, for the past three days.”

“Where are you now?”

“Medford. Third floor.”

“I’m on my way.”

7.

One of the perks of being incredibly wealthy is the ability to have private jet service available anywhere in the world on a moment’s notice. By the time my limo drops me off at Teterboro, the Lear 60 is fueled and the pilots are ready to go.

Minutes later we’re at altitude, but I’ve still got an hour thirty to kill before I can start the search for Rachel. When we land, I’ll hit the ground running. I’ll thoroughly examine her apartment, then interrogate Nadine until she can remember some tiny detail that can help me figure out what I’m up against.

I look around the jet’s interior, restless. I’m worried about Rachel. Can’t shake the sick, helpless feeling that’s chewing my heart. She needs me, and I can’t do anything about it. Not yet, at least. Wherever she is, she’s suffering. I can feel it. Maybe the suffering is physical, maybe emotional, I don’t know. They could be doing terrible things to her. They could—I need to—I need a diversion. I decide to do what I always do when I can’t get Rachel off my mind.

I call another woman.

Of course Miranda’s voice mail comes on. She’s still in class. I hate to cancel our plans via voice message. For one thing, it’s classless. For another, I’m a voice mail toad. I never know how to end the damn things, so I stumble on until I hate myself for sounding so lame. Then I hang up in mid sentence. As her “Leave your name and number” message runs out, I hear the beep that tells me it’s my turn to speak. So I do. I cancel our plans with an idiotic voice message that tells her we can’t have dinner tonight because something came up, but then I remember I have to mention we can’t go to the show, either. So I tell her that. Then I remember I hadn’t told her about dinner until just now, so I have to tell her dinner was supposed to be a surprise, but I hadn’t actually made the reservations because…I hang up, pull the phone away from my ear and frown at it, unable to believe how stupid I sound.

My thoughts turn to Rachel, the love of my life.

You might wonder how I can be madly in love with Rachel while carrying on with women such as Miranda.