Donovan Creed 11 - Because We Can! (12 page)

23.

KATHLEEN’S CELL PHONE contains recently deleted photos of Donovan Creed!

In this one he’s lying in bed, sleeping. In this one he’s completely nude, with his back to the camera, walking toward Kathleen’s bathroom. In this one, he’s sideways, taking a shower. In this one, a close up of his penis is taking a shower. Creed seems completely oblivious to the photos being shot, and normally Callie wouldn’t make a big deal out of a former girlfriend capturing private moments of her lover and his anatomy on a disk years ago, even if the former girlfriend decided to keep the photos for her personal enjoyment.

Except that when Kathleen was dating Creed, he had a different face.

These photos show his current face. The one Kathleen was supposed to have seen for the first time at dinner last night. Now that Callie thinks about it, when Kathleen greeted Creed she said, “Hello, Donovan.” What she should have said was, “Nice face!” or, “I never would have believed it was you!” But she didn’t make any comment about his face.

Doesn’t that seem strange?

It does, now that Callie thinks about it.

How did she fail to pick up on it last night while listening to their conversation?

Simple. She wasn’t expecting Kathleen to be at the dinner. She was expecting a possible ambush. Then she got sidetracked by Rose and the very pregnant Miranda.

Callie’s the first to admit she jumps to conclusions. But these photos aren’t an example of her imagination running wild. They’re camera specific. They weren’t transferred from Kathleen’s original iPhone. They were taken from her iPhone 5.

They didn’t have iPhone 5’s when Kathleen and Creed were dating.

Not to mention these particular photos are time-and-date stamped, which proves they were taken eight weeks ago. Which means Creed fucked Kathleen exactly two days before Callie told him she loved him and made the decision to share his life.

Callie feels the rush of boiling blood flooding her system. Feels the adrenalin kick in. She stands and flips her desk over. Throws a chair across the room so hard it smashes against the wall. She reaches for the standing lamp but hears her cell phone vibrate. She glances at the display and sees that Decker has sent her a video attachment.

Callie’s not in the mood to watch a video. She’d rather trash her room and kill whoever bangs on the wall to complain about it. She picks up the mangled chair and smashes it repeatedly against the wall.

No one complains.

The fucking chair has been reduced to kindling and no one’s complaining about the
noise
? What’s the
matter
with people?

She opens the door that connects to the adjoining room. As expected, there’s a second door locked from the other side. One kick to the left of the lock is all it takes to weaken the frame. Two more kicks and she’s in.

Someone got lucky. The room is vacant.

She looks around. What would an angry rock star do?

Trash the room.

She grabs the desk chair and flings it into the giant-screen TV. Tries to lift the bed, but finds it bolted. She screams in frustration. Then spots the floor-to-ceiling window, and decides to take her life.

She throws herself full speed into the window, expecting to crash through and plummet to her death, but—
damn it to hell!
—it’s safety glass. The impact makes the whole room shudder, but the glass holds, and Callie rebounds painfully to the floor. She lies there a moment, on her side, then rolls onto her back. Her chest is heaving with violent intentions.

This would be a bad time for someone to complain about the noise.

A very bad time.

She wonders why no one’s called the front desk. That’s how it works, right? Some asshole tears up a room at night, guests call the front desk to complain, the front desk calls the room to warn or threaten them…

If someone working the front desk calls she might go downstairs and create a bloodbath.

She pictures herself vaulting over the front desk counter, slashing throats, going from one office to the next, slaughtering employees and managers alike.

There are few sounds Callie enjoys more than a razor-sharp blade slicing through a meaty section of human flesh. But one is the initial strike of a non-fatal stab. In order for the sound to be right, the knife must enter the body all the way to the front quillon without hitting ribs, bones, or vital organs. If you plan to stab someone for the sheer enjoyment of hearing the sound, you need to know anatomy and strike angles, because it’s harder than you think to stab a human with a proper knife and not hit bone.

Callie has a proper knife.

And the knowledge and desire to use it.

She hears a small chirp from the next room that reminds her Decker sent her a video file.

She gets to her feet, walks to her room, clicks on the file and sees a short video of a recent rally, where an unseen Decker instructs his troops in the use of spray cans to render policemen and park visitors unconscious. He explains how they need to work in teams. Four per cop, three per civilian. One distracts the target, one sprays the target’s face, one or two catch the targets as they fall. One pulls the pants down, one writes BWC on the ass.

What makes the video unique, it wasn’t made before the Central Park attack. And the troops aren’t college-aged men.

They’re college-aged women.

And the attack is scheduled for 9:00 a.m. tomorrow, in Jackson Square, New Orleans, less than a mile from the Rose Dumont Hotel, where Creed is staying tonight.

It’s a test.

Callie’s so pissed about Creed’s affair with Kathleen she has half a mind to warn him about the impending Jackson Square attack. If she does, Decker will send Creed the video of her killing Kathleen. The question is, does Callie really care if Creed finds out?

She thinks about it.

Yes, she
does
care.

Because she’s won.

True, Creed never told her he’d been sleeping with Kathleen, but fucking Kathleen doesn’t necessarily mean he had feelings for her. What really counts is two days after the photos were taken, when Callie said she wanted to be with him, he said yes and dumped Kathleen.

Callie now realizes killing Kathleen was the right thing to do. She would have been a perpetual threat to their happiness, because couples argue. It’s unavoidable. If Creed had kept Kathleen in his back pocket, he might have contacted her during the tough times. If Callie and Creed had a verbal or physical argument at some point, it would be human nature for Creed to seek comfort with the woman who loved and adored him all these years.

And she would have spread her legs for him without a moment’s hesitation.

But Kathleen is no longer an option for Creed. No future threat to their relationship.

Ding Dong, the witch is dead!

Callie will keep Decker’s upcoming attack a secret. And why not? What’s the big deal about park visitors getting some grease on their asses? If Decker can wrangle a billion dollars for what amounts to a college prank, more power to him. And if Creed somehow finds out that Callie killed Kathleen, maybe that won’t be such a big deal, either. Creed had to know he couldn’t have possibly made a life with that nagging frump. If Creed finds out, Callie will apologize, promise never to kill his other girlfriends, and eventually, he’ll forgive her.

Because Callie’s going to be the best girlfriend he ever had.

If she can get over the fact he was fucking Kathleen behind her back.

She calls Decker and says, “Nice video.”

“Thanks. Are you still on board?”

“Yes. Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Where’s Kathleen?”

He pauses. “You don’t expect me to answer that, do you?”

“Yes.”

“Over the phone?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I need closure.”

He laughs. “You’re something else. Stay tuned.”

Two minutes later Callie’s phone chirps with a text message.

24.

THE DISPLAY ON Callie’s phone shows the call came from a different cell phone. Obviously a disposable, untraceable, pre-paid one, which makes sense, given the message:
Fresh, Shallow Grave
, and the coordinates, which shows Kathleen’s body is located 80 miles from Callie’s hotel.

She quickly packs her clothes, a sheet, and her personal items, and heads down the hall toward the elevators. On the way, she nods at the security cop who’s heading to her room to complain about the noise.

If only he’d come sooner.

Another lucky bastard gets to live another day
.

Callie takes the elevator to the parking garage, loads the coordinates into her GPS, and follows the verbal directions. When the voice says, “You have arrived at your destination,” she leaves her headlights on and walks 11 yards before finding the mound of dirt where Kathleen’s buried. She places the sheet on the lower half of the mound and lies on it. Then takes her knife and plunges it into the center of the mound.

And feels nothing.

Not so shallow after all.

She stands, pulls the sheet away, looks for the shovel they would have left at the scene after removing any finger prints. Decker’s people would be smart enough to know you don’t transport a dead body in a vehicle, and then keep the shovel that dug the grave. Because if for some reason they were stopped by a cop, the shovel could lead to questions that could be answered by a cadaver-sniffing dog, followed by a soil analysis that could match them to the grave site.

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 Callie. 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.