John Locke - Callie’s Last Dance

“Then please, sir. Stay in the room with me.”

“I’ve been here two hours.”

“Yes sir.”

“It’s Pappy Van Winkle bourbon, Tommy.”

“I get off duty at midnight,” he says. “In case that offer’s still on the table.”

I like this kid. He reminds me of me, except for the part about following orders.

I look at my watch.

“Tommy, out of respect for your father, I’ll give them two more hours. Then I’m drinking.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You understand what I’m saying, son?”

“Yes sir.”

“Tell me.”

“You’re giving me two hours to live.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

AN HOUR LATER the conference room door opens and everyone walks out.

“Bathroom break,” Sherm Phillips says, as he walks past me.

Sherm’s failure to shake my hand wasn’t a slight. He knows I don’t shake hands. In my line of work I have to assume any attempt to touch me is an attempt on my life. The other members of the Homeland Security team know that, too. They won’t even make eye contact with me.

The Sherm Phillips here is the same one you know as the U.S. Secretary of Defense. When he returns from the bathroom he says, “Sorry for the wait. Give us five more minutes, okay?”

“Okay.”

Sherm’s a good guy. One of the few I’ve met in government who actually thinks our country is more important than his job title.

Twenty minutes later the door opens and I’m invited to join them.

“Good luck, sir,” Tommy says as I pass in front of him.

I stop a moment and look him in the eyes.

“Am I being set up?” I say.

“I don’t know, sir.”

I search his face for deception, but find none.

“Don’t do it, son.”

“We’re on the same side, Mr. Creed.”

“They always say that. Until we’re not.”

“Understood.”

I continue into the conference room where the Big Six are seated around the polished oak table. Sherm’s there, as is Randolph Scott, Director, Homeland Security. Senator Colin Scherer gives me a nod. Annie Lorber and Emerson Watkins virtually ignore me. They’re the children of Sensory’s co-founders, Bill Lorber and Bob Watkins, both deceased. The sixth member is chairing the meeting.

“Mr. Creed,” he says, “I’m Preston Mooney, agency director, LSR. I think you know the others. Please, take a seat.”

The table seats twelve. Mooney’s at the head, with the others flanking him, which means there are six empty seats between us. I sit at the foot of the table, keeping as many seats between us as possible. At the same time, I realize my back is to the door.

I don’t like having my back to the door, and it probably shows because Mooney says, “You seem tightly wound, Mr. Creed.”

“If you’ve summoned me here to kill me, you’ve made a big mistake.”

“I don’t understand,” he says.

“We’re in the same room,” I say.

I remove three quarters from my pocket, stand, walk to the door, and push them into the door jamb, effectively locking us all in the room together.

“Donovan,” Sherm says. “Relax. No one’s trying to kill you.”

“I want to believe you,” I say, “but my senses are on high alert.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mooney says.

Sherm says, “It means if someone suddenly farts, none of us will live to smell it.”

Annie Lorber wrinkles her nose in disgust.

I reclaim my seat.

“What’s LSR?” I say. “What do you do?”

“That information is beyond your pay grade,” Mooney says.

“You don’t pay me.”

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t get paid for my work, here. I have to moonlight to pay the bills.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You said your agency’s initials are beyond my pay grade. I don’t have a pay grade.”

Preston Mooney rolls his eyes. “It’s a figure of speech,” he says.

“I don’t really care about the initials,” I say. “But I do want to know what happened to Lou Kelly.”

Mooney gives me a sour look.

“I’m told you’re a primitive man,” he says. “But be advised there are parliamentary rules and procedures for conducting a meeting. As long as I’m chairman, we’ll follow those rules.”

I look at Sherm Phillips, who shakes his head as if to say, “See what I have to deal with every day?”

“AS THE OTHER members of the committee are aware,” Mooney says, “Lou Kelly accidentally contracted dimethylmercury poisoning.”

“Accidentally?” I say.

Sherm Phillips says, “Miles Gundy’s work.”

I nod. Miles Gundy, now deceased, was a disgruntled corporate chemist-turned-urban terrorist.

Sherm adds, “The poison was spread by physical contact. Apparently Gundy combined it with a five hour virus.”

“What about Lou’s girlfriend?”

“Sherry Cherry?”

I nod.

“Dead.”

Sherry was Rachel Case’s mother. Rachel being my former girlfriend. Current girlfriend, if you’re asking her. Rachel’s being held in an underground bunker in the government facility at Mt. Weather where government scientists are harvesting her eggs.

But that’s another story for another time.

“Do you have a final body count?” I ask Sherm.

Sherm’s answer is interrupted by a banging sound. All eyes turn to Preston Mooney, who has a little circular cylinder of wood on the table that he’s hitting with-I shit you not-a miniature wooden gavel.

“ Order !” he shouts.

“Seriously?” I say.

“Gundy’s total body count was eight hundred sixty,” Sherm says.

Mooney gives him a withering look.

“Sorry,” Sherm says.

Mooney clears his throat. “The reason we sent for you-”

“I’ll take the job,” I say.

“Excuse me?” Mooney frowns. “You can’t just come in here and-”

“Can someone else in here do the job?” I say.

They look around the table at each other. The short answer is no.

“Does someone here want the job?” I say.

They search each other’s faces again.

I say, “Do you have any outside candidates in mind?”

Mooney says, “There are a number of gifted people we can transition into the job.”

“Seriously?”

He smiles a thin-lipped smile. “Does that surprise you, Mr. Creed?”

“Yes. And delights me, as well.”

He frowns. “How so?”

“I can’t tell you how many things I’d rather do than be head of Sensory Resources.”

I stand, preparing to leave.

“Wait. Sit down,” Mooney says. “We haven’t begun the questioning!”

“With all due respect, I have no interest in being Director of Sensory Resources.”

“None?”

“None.”

“Why?”

“It’s a shit job.”

Mooney says, “You were informed by phone you were a candidate?”

“I was.”

“But you aren’t interested in the job?”

“That’s correct.”

Mooney looks around the table. “Who else has a prospective candidate?”

Emerson Watkins and Annie Lorber look at each other, but say nothing. I wonder what that’s about.

Mooney looks at me. “If you don’t want the job, why did you say you’d take it?”

“I thought you needed me.”

They look at each other. Some are indignant, others puzzled.

Annie Lorber says, “Why would you volunteer to do a job you hate?”

“To protect my country.”

Director Scott says, “Good answer. You’ve got the job.”

Mooney says, “He needs to be interviewed first. There are procedures.”

Senator Scherer says, “Fuck the procedures. He’s got us by the balls.”