John Locke: Bad Doctor

He starts to puff up like when he’s about to punch out some poor schlub at Shady’s. “Who hit you?” he says.

“Cameron.”

“ What?”

“When the drunk puked, I jumped and turned away and Cameron smacked me by mistake.”

He frowns.

“Tell me the truth. Did someone hit you?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“I already told you.”

“Cameron.”

“That’s right. You’ve seen her dance. She throws her arms all over the place. I ran into one of them.”

Bobby laughs.

Willow says, “Glad you think it’s funny.”

“You hit her back?”

“Of course not.”

“Why?”

“It was an accident.”

“I’d have smacked her anyway.”

“Of course you would. Can I go to bed now?”

He stares at her cheek a while longer, then says, “How much did you make?”

“Nine-sixty.”

“No shit? That’s a world record!”

“Trust me, I earned every cent.”

He smiles a gappy, brown-toothed smile that makes her cringe.

“Nine hundred and sixty dollars?”

“That’s right.”

He rubs his fingers together. “Like they say in the movies-”

She looks at him blankly.

He rubs his fingers some more. Then says, “Show me the money.”

“I’ll have to show you tomorrow.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m getting it first thing in the morning.”

“The fuck’re you talking about?”

“They rang out the shift while I was in the shower.”

“You let them take your money?”

She sighs. “You act like it’s never happened before. I’ve got a receipt.”

Bobby puts his hand out. “Cough it up.”

Willow shows him a piece of paper that explains she earned twelve hundred ten, minus her stage fee of two-fifty, for a net of nine-sixty.

“I can’t believe you have to pay those bastards two hundred and fifty bucks to work for tips.”

“It’s been like that since I started.”

He squints. “Whose signature is that?”

“Gary’s.”

“Where’d he learn to write?”

She shrugs. “Kindergarten?”

He laughs. “What time tomorrow?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll have it long before you wake up.”

“Make sure you do.”

“Can I go to bed now?” she says.

He gives her a long, hard look, but stands aside to let her pass.

“Nice ass,” he says, as she enters the room.

Willow and Cameron.

Friday, 8:30 a.m.

“Maybe he’s skipping work today,” Cameron says, between yawns.

“It’s Friday. He’s going to work.”

“It’s eight-thirty, Willow.”

“So?”

“We got here at six-fifteen, right?”

Willow pauses a minute, then says, “You’re right. I’m going in.”

She climbs out of the car, crosses two well-manicured yards, walks up to Chris Fowler’s front door, and rings the doorbell.

Waits a few seconds, rings it again.

And again.

She moves to the living room window, puts her hands on either side of her face to block the glare, and peers inside.

Nothing.

She rounds the house and looks through the sliding glass door of the den.

Nothing.

She goes to the backside of the garage, peeks through the window, and sees the same burgundy Escalade she saw last night when Chris pulled up and opened the garage door. But Chris’s black Mercedes sedan is missing.

Assuming his name is Chris.

Could he have used a fake name?

Willow walks back through the front yard, opens the mailbox, and removes a thick stack of bills and magazines. She riffles through them. The bills were sent to Christopher Fowler. Most of the magazines, to Kathy Fowler.

Willow walks back to her car and tells Cameron they’ve lost Chris.

“Lost him?”

“His car’s gone.”

Cameron shakes her head. “I can’t believe we sat here all this time. It makes sense he’d go to work early if his wife’s coming home at noon.”

“Her name’s Kathy. Her car’s still in the garage.”

“What now?”

“We come back at noon and wait for them.”

“You think he’ll be with her?”

“Yup. He’ll probably pick her up at the airport. When they get home, we’ll knock on the door and have a little chat with him.”

“In front of Kathy?”

“That’ll be up to Chris.”

Dr. Gideon Box

Friday, 8:45 a.m.

The auditorium at Wentworth Christian Academy is as packed as you’d expect on graduation day. I slip inside and try to blend in with the dads standing against the back wall. The principal introduces the faculty, and tells a lame joke that elicits polite chuckling.

The man on my right leans into my face space, practically touching my ear with his lips.

“Proud papa?”

“Friend of the family,” I say, staring straight ahead.

“Which one?”

“Excuse me?”

“Which kid are you here to see?”

Instead of answering, I say, “Which one’s yours?”

“The tall one, second row, all the way on the left.”

“Nice looking young lady,” I say.

“We’re going to keep her,” he says, chuckling.

Before he has a chance to annoy me further, the kids sing a song. Then another. Then the principal goes to the podium and announces the name of the little girl I came to see.

Shelby Lynn Meyers.

Valedictorian.

Who ever heard of a sixth-grade class having a valedictorian?

But Shelby’s special. She strolls to the podium full of life, and delivers a three-minute speech in a crisp, clear tone. She tells the audience how lucky she is to be alive, how seven years ago she came within an inch of dying. She talks about how she woke up in the hospital after her ordeal and realized every day is a precious blessing, a gift from God.

Little Shelby and I have a connection. It’s why I’m standing here, transfixed by her presence. She’s the reason I traveled all the way from Manhattan, where I live and work.

I wanted to see her.

Had to see her.

Shelby’s the first kid I saved, and the least likely to survive.

After eight hours of what can best be described as a surgical cluster fuck the two surgeons charged with assisting me attempted to pronounce Shelby dead.

I told them to fuck themselves. One gave me a stern warning, the other left the room in a huff.

But I was on a roll.

I cursed the surgeon who left and the one who remained equally. I cursed the nurses and called them terrible names. I even cursed Shelby Lynn, the little dead kid on my table. I made fun of her blue body and rotten internal organs. Called her a freak, a monster, and every other horrific name I could think of. I cursed her parents, her friends, relatives, and ancestors.

After calling her every name in the book, I yelled, “Don’t die on me, you little muff-munching bitch. If you even try to die I’ll set your parents on fire! I’ll kill your friends! I’ll celebrate your birthday each year by bludgeoning a child to death.”

You know, stuff like that.

Before you get all bent out of shape, remember, she was only five. There’s no way she could know what bludgeoning meant.

But the medical staff thought I was suffering a meltdown. They stayed in the room to chronicle my behavior so they could report me later. That changed when I poked Shelby’s dead body and slapped the bottoms of her feet while screaming at her. At that point the room cleared, save for the gas guy and a nurse, both of whom were yelling their own threats at me.

I didn’t care. This kid was simply not going to die on my watch.

I felt it.

I knew it.

I just figured I hadn’t put together the right combination of words yet.