John Locke - Bad Doctor

“I’d remember you,” I say.

“Perhaps I’m mistaken,” Miranda says.

And there it was.

She looks differently now, but her voice and manner of speaking is the same.

I not only know this young lady, I fucked her two years ago.

“Please, sit down,” I say, studying her body, trying to remember what she looked like naked.

Miranda closes her eyes tightly, as if by not seeing me, I won’t see her.

Rose’s jade-green eyes are dancing. She seems amused.

I try to remember that night, two years ago. I’d been stood up by my date, and was so upset I opened a bottle of scotch and called an escort service. I said, “Charge whatever you must, but send the most beautiful woman you’ve got.” An hour later, Miranda showed up at my place.

Only she was going by the name Bailey at the time.

I’d been drinking, so the details were fuzzy the next morning, but I recalled her being wonderful in the sack and was convinced she’d be delighted to see me again. I wanted to enjoy the experience completely sober the next night, but when I called the agency they said Bailey had gone independent. I asked for her contact information, but was told, “We don’t do referrals. It’s a sure way to put ourselves out of business.”

I tried a couple of their other girls, but Bailey-Miranda-ruined me.

“Is this a bad time?” Rose says. “Because you seem distracted.”

“Not at all,” I say, unable to pull my eyes away from Miranda.

Rose says, “You can’t tell by looking at her, but Miranda’s pregnant.”

I frown. “Oh.”

“Something wrong?”

“No, of course not. It’s just-”

“Yes?” Miranda says.

“Should I congratulate you, or-”

“You can congratulate me,” Rose says.

Noting my puzzled look, she adds, “Miranda will be the birth mother of my child. As such, she’s staying with me and will continue to do so until after the child is born and becomes healthy.”

“And you’re telling me this because?”

“Miranda’s baby will be born with serious congenital heart defects.”

“That’s ridiculous. There’s no way to know that at this stage.”

“Nevertheless, it’s why I agreed to work with you. You’re going to help me save my child’s life.”

“You mean Miranda’s child.”

I look at Miranda. “You sold your baby?”

She lowers her eyes.

Rose says, “Don’t go down that road, Gideon.”

Suddenly I’ve become Gideon. But not in a good way.

“There’s no reason to believe Miranda’s baby will have heart issues,” I say.

“Did you hear me? I’ve known this half my life. It’s why I studied all these years.”

“That’s crazy. You can’t predict an unborn child’s medical condition years before it’s born. How would you even know who the father might be?”

“I knew who the father needed to be,” Rose says. “But don’t try to understand. It’s completely beyond your capacity. And anyway, you won’t remember this visit any more than you remembered me serving you birch bark tea all night in your home.”

“What? You don’t even know where I live!”

She shakes her head. “What’s important is the seed has been planted. You will accept Miranda’s surgery, and it will be the most important surgery ever performed.”

“That’s particularly dramatic,” I say.

“Just remember Miranda Rodriguez,” she says. “Miranda Rodriguez. And Dr. Box?”

“Yeah?”

“When you operate on my child, there will be no cursing.”

“Because?”

“You don’t want to piss off this baby.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“We have to go now,” Rose says.

“Wait. Miranda?”

She looks up.

“Is there any way you’d consider seeing me again?”

“No. I’m sorry.”

“Was I really that awful?”

She looks at Rose, then back at me and says, “You’re not a happy person.”

“Are you serious?”

She says nothing. Both women turn to leave.

As they walk out the door I say, “What’s so important about being happy?”

I press the intercom button. When Lola answers I ask, “Who’s our best oncologist?”

“Probably Dr. Suni or Dr. Mamba.”

“Find out which one knows more about Hodgkin’s lymphoma.”

She hesitates, then says, “Is everything okay?”

“Yes, of course. Just let me know, okay?”

“Will do.”

Thirty seconds later Lola comes back on the intercom.

“Line one,” she says.

“Who is it?”

“Dani Ripper.”

I pick up and Dani says, “Are you ready for your bombshell?”

“Yes.”

“Willow Breeland,” she says.

“What about her?”

“She died five years ago.”

“ What?”

“Willow Breeland-the real Willow Breeland-died five years ago. In a car crash.

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s simple, Dr. Box. Your house guest is an identity thief.”

“The young lady slept with has been posing as Willow for at least three years,” Dani says.

“What’s her real name?”

“I’m not sure. But I’ve narrowed it down to four teenagers who were reported missing three years ago. Wait!”

“Huh?”

“Hang on a second.”

Dani puts me on hold for about a minute.

“Sorry about that,” she says. “I sent her strip club photo to a friend in the police department. By matching it to photos of the missing girls, we’re down to two. If you send me a better picture I can get you an answer within minutes.”

“I’ll take a picture of her on my cell phone when I get home.”

“If she’s still there,” Dani says.

“How much of her story’s true?” I say.

“She’s definitely dying of cancer. And her friend Cameron died in the hospital, though they haven’t determined cause of death yet.”

“That’s more a function of damage control. They’re trying to decide what story will cost them the least in a possible lawsuit.”

“You’d know better than me,” Dani says. “Still, I’m waiting to hear back from one of Cameron’s nurses.”

“Why would she speak out?”

“You know that five grand you’re paying me?”

“I know you’re asking for five.”

“Well, I have to purchase some of my information.”

“What could the nurse possibly tell you that would make a difference in Willow’s background check?”

“Think of it as a giant puzzle, where Cameron is not just a piece, but an entire section.”

“Cameron? Please! At most, she’s a puzzle piece. And a small one at that.”

“Being a guy, you’ll just have to trust my intuition.”

“You can’t explain it rationally?”

“I can. But you won’t understand.”

“Try me.”

“A woman’s best friend is as big a part of her life as her husband. Even bigger, if she’s single. And remember, both these girls were single.”

“Fine. Whatever. Pursue the nurse. But I guarantee you’re wasting your time.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“You said you’ve narrowed her name to two missing kids. What are their names?”

“Amy Huddleston and Andrea Foster. And my money’s on Amy.”

“Should I come right out and ask her about it?”

“I would. She might have a legitimate reason for using a fake name.”

“You think?”

“It’s possible. But if you’re only asking one thing?”

“Yeah?”

“Get her date of birth.”

“Is that the easiest thing to trace?”

“No, but it’ll tell you if she’s eighteen. Because if she’s underage, it could come back to bite you in a major way.

“Great.”