She finds the shovel and digs up enough dirt to expose Kathleen’s body. Then she places the sheet on the bottom half of Kathleen’s corpse, lies down on it, and methodically stabs every square inch of Kathleen’s body above the waist. Then she stands, moves the sheet to the base of the grave, and says, “I don’t like you, Kathleen. And I never will.”
She lies down on the sheet and begins stabbing Kathleen’s crotch. After a dozen hard strikes, her cell phone rings.
She answers, “Funny you should call, Donovan.”
“Why’s that?”
“I was just thinking of you.”
“This very moment?”
“Yup.”
“Is that why you sound out of breath?”
“Yup.”
“Cool. What were you thinking?”
“Sexual thoughts.”
25.
Donovan Creed.
THIS MORNING, AT 9:00 a.m. Decker struck Jackson Square with college-aged women!
Law enforcement throughout the country had been concentrating on college-aged men carrying backpacks in parks and other public areas.
Up north, the U.W. Oshkosh Glee Club was arrested en masse while setting up for a scheduled public performance at the local amphitheater. Down south, an unfortunate dance troupe was attacked and savagely beaten at an outdoor mall in Brighton, Georgia, by a pack of primitive rednecks.
No one suspected women.
Not even me.
And now I’m on the phone with Ryan Decker, who’s demanding—try to contain yourself—a billion dollars to stop the attacks.
“Why me?” I say.
“What do you mean?”
“Why tell me your demands, instead of the press, the police, or some government official?”
“Few people understand the implications of what I’ve accomplished the past two days. Fewer still have the ability to conceive what lies ahead.”
“But you think I do?”
“I’m certain of it.”
“I don’t even exist, as far as the government’s concerned.”
“Maybe not, but I happen to know you’ve got the president’s ear, which gives us a decent chance to orchestrate a happy ending for all concerned. By keeping my demands private, we can avoid a wide-spread panic.”
“It won’t work.”
“I agree the chances are slim. But if anyone can prevent the carnage, it’s you.”
“You’ll need to come down on your price.”
“A billion is a bargain.”
“They won’t pay that.”
“Then I’ll have to take my case to the public.”
“The problem with that, you’ll outrage the country. You want them scared, not angry.”
“Those who live will be plenty scared.”
“We’ll eventually catch you.”
“It’s inevitable. And I’d rather not be caught. But I’m well-prepared. I think I can make an impact.”
“I think so too.” I pause, then say, “I’ll call my boss, see what he has to say.”
“I appreciate that.”
“What’s your deadline?”
“I don’t believe in deadlines. If I say noon tomorrow, they’ll wait to see if I actually do something at noon tomorrow. If I do, it’ll be harder for them to justify paying me. If I don’t, I’ll be perceived as weak. Tell you what: I’ll call you at noon tomorrow and see how it’s going.”
“Sounds fair.”
“I know you’re obligated to set up all your equipment in an attempt to trace the call tomorrow, to try to locate me. I understand that. It won’t work, but you have to go through the motions. That’s what sucks about being a bureaucrat. Common sense goes out the window. What a colossal waste of time.”
“How do you want it?”
“What?”
“The money.”
“Are you hopeful I’ll actually get paid?”
“No. But I’ll make a strong case.”
“Thanks. I respect you for that. But I won’t waste your time with details about how to deliver money that hasn’t been collected yet. If it’s a yes, we’ll have plenty of time to work things out.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Go ahead.”
“Do I know you?”
“I think not. If you did, you’d recognize me from the sketch that’s being shown all over the world.”
“Is it a good likeness?”
“I’d rather not say. Who provided the description?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Fair enough. Bye for now.”
“Wait.”
“Please tell me you’re not trying to trace this call.”
“No. But I am recording it.”
“Of course you are.”
“I have enough to try to match your voice prints.”
“I’d expect nothing less.”
“Thanks. Actually, I’m curious about your connection to Emmett Love.”
“He’s your ancestor.”
“I’ve got lots of ancestors.”
“Me too.”
He hangs up, leaving me to wonder what he meant. Could he and I be related somehow?
I think about calling my geeks to see if they can establish a detailed family tree going back to the pre-Emmett Love era, to see if there were any Deckers in my ancestry. Then decide against it. I doubt Ryan Decker’s his real name, and I don’t want to divert my geeks from trying to locate him.
I call Sherm Phillips, U.S. Secretary of Defense.
“What’s up?” Sherm says.
“You been keeping up with this BWC foolishness?”
“Who hasn’t? It’s a bigger story than Reese Witherspoon’s new hair color.”
“We can make it go away for a billion dollars.”
He laughs. “Tell Decker to keep scribbling on asses.”
“The grease pen’s just the beginning. He’s been planning this a long time. He’ll remain several steps ahead of us. He’ll escalate the attacks.”
“We’ve got his picture, and from what I understand, your geeks should have his complete profile within hours. He’s got no chance.”
“How many years did it take to catch Bin Laden?”
“He was in a different country. We’ll find Decker sooner, not later.”
“I agree. But he’s going to do a lot of damage in the meantime.”
“It’s a no on the money. You know our position. We don’t deal with terrorists.”
“Not officially. But it wouldn’t be the first time we’ve paid one off.”
“The price for ass painting is far less than bombing buildings.”
“He bombed some lake houses.”
“Child’s play.”
“Will you run it by the president?”
He pauses. “Please tell me you’re not recommending we pay this joker.”
“That’s exactly what I’m recommending. If we don’t nip it now, it’s going to get ugly.”
“He pulls people’s pants down! You know who else does that? Clowns! This guy’s a clown. I can’t believe you want to pay him.”
“He knows what he’s doing.”
“Where’s the proof of that?”
“Could you coordinate an attack on three policemen and more than thirty civilians in Central Park in broad daylight without being seen or photographed by a single witness?”
“If I had 100 guys? Why not?”
“How do you find 100 college-age guys to do that? And how do you teach them to post the photos on social media in such a way that the photos can’t be traced back to them?”
“The president doesn’t consider this a serious threat. If Decker wants a deal tell him to come back at me with a hundred grand. Hell, make it a buck-fifty. But a billion dollars? A billion?” He laughs again. “Tell him to fuck off.”
“I’ll tell him. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Noted. Call me when you’ve got some hard facts on the guy.”
We hang up and I call C
allie. When she answers I say, “Guess who I just spoke to.”
“Kathleen?”
“Ryan Decker.”
“No shit? What did he want?”
“He made me an offer.”
“Why you?”
“I asked him the same question.”
“And?”
“He thinks I’ve got the president’s ear. Thinks if we negotiate in private he’ll have a better chance to get paid.”
“How much is he asking for?”
“Guess.”
“Ten million.”
“That’s high, don’t you think?”
“Not really.”
“A billion.”
“Excuse me?”
“He’s demanding a billion dollars.”
Callie laughs. “That seems high. What did you say?”
“I told him I’d make a few calls.”
“Think they’ll pay?”
“Would you?”
“If I’m president? Of course. Because I wouldn’t want to be remembered as the one who could have stopped it, but didn’t. Have they caught any of the women?”
“Nope. No photographs, no evidence. Pretty damned hard to accomplish in the age of cell phone cameras, don’t you think?”
“I think Decker’s ex-military. Or ex-CIA.”
“Could be. Even though it was a bullshit attack—grease pens on asses—it was organized and executed with military precision.”
“What about Jill?”
“What about her?”
“Last night you were planning to have her call Decker.”
“I changed my mind.”
“Why?”
“Too quick. Too obvious. I’d like to save her for later. Keep her under wraps a bit longer. Maybe I’ll get lucky.”
“Excuse me?”
“Maybe Decker will contact her personally, and I won’t have to work the whole thing out. What did you think I meant?”
“I wasn’t sure. But after hearing how every man who meets her falls in love—”
“Don’t be silly. You’ve got nothing to worry about. If she stripped naked four feet in front of me I wouldn’t even touch her.”
“Would you look at her?”
I laugh. “That’s an odd question.”
“Would you?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you would.”
“And would that bother you?”
“Immensely. In fact, I’d never get over it.”
“Then I’ll make sure not to look, should the occasion ever arise.”
“Thanks, Donovan.”
“I had another reason for calling. I want you to come to New Orleans this afternoon.”
“Why?”
“We’re going to kill Bobby DiPiese.”
“Who, you and me?”
“And Joe, though he’ll be off-site when we go in.”
“Tonight?”
“Yup. I’m gathering supplies as we speak.”
“You’ll send a jet?”
“It’s already waiting for you at Teterboro.”
“Are we done in New York City?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I need to know if I should bring all my clothes, or keep them here and extend my stay.”
“Keep the room at the Plaza. If all goes well we’ll fly back after the job tonight.”
“Okay. Except that I’m not at the Plaza. I’m at the Peninsula.”
“Why’d you change hotels?”
“The Plaza’s on the edge of Central Park.”
“So?”
“I was afraid someone would knock me down and write on my ass. And only you get to do that.”
I laugh.
She says, “Speaking of assholes, what about Kathleen?”
“That’s rather harsh. What about her?”
“We were planning to call her tonight.”
“I’ll call her now, if you like.”
“I want to be with you when you talk to her. I want to hear her say she understands you’re taken.”
“She already knows that. But okay, if that’s what you want.”
“It is. Thanks. I’ll see you soon.” She pauses. Then says, “I love you.”
“Thanks for adding that. I love you, too, Callie.”
“Don’t ever stop.” She pauses again. Then says, “Or else.”
I laugh, and hang up.
Then realize she didn’t share the laugh.
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 momen
t 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.”