Donovan Creed 11 - Because We Can!

  “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 basemen
t 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!

  4.

  Maybe Taylor.

  MAYBE’S BEEN COOLING her heels in Milo’s basement for three hours. Lemon’s been home half that time. She showered first, then started making dinner.

  It’s dark before Jake rings the doorbell.

  Three wireless pinhole cameras record the events taking place upstairs. Areas of coverage include the kitchen, dining room, and den.

  Maybe’s monitoring everything on her cell phone.

  She didn’t bother placing a camera in the bedroom, because when a woman cooks dinner for her lover, the natural progression is kitchen, dining room, den, bedroom.

  And they won’t make it past the den.

  Maybe’s first thought was kill them quickly and get it over with. But she finds the whole Lemon-Jake dynamic interesting, and whatever Lemon’s preparing—some sort of pasta with grilled chicken, spinach, smoked bacon, and pine nuts—smells divine. Also, Maybe has no close friends, and rarely gets to enjoy an evening out. She hopes to mix business and pleasure this time.

  Lemon fusses over the food for another 15 minutes before lighting the candles and placing dinner on the table.

  When the lovers take their seats, Maybe climbs the stairs.