John Locke - Callie’s Last Dance

Director Scott says, “There are no other candidates, Preston. You know it, I know it, he knows it.”

Mooney says, “The committee has spent a great deal of time and effort preparing a list of questions to determine the candidate’s suitability for the job!”

Sherm says, “Those are your questions, Mr. Chairman, not ours.”

Mooney bangs the gavel and raises his voice. “I’m the government liaison to Sensory Resources. I report directly to the President! I will be heard!”

Sherm says, “Creed already answered the only two questions that count. He hates the job and loves his country. Anything else you ask is as helpful as whale shit on a hockey rink.”

Mooney says, “These questions need to be asked. It’s part of the process. His responses will be sealed in his permanent file.”

“Maybe you can just look up all the shit I did in elementary school,” I say, trying to be helpful. “The principal assured me it would all go on my permanent record.”

“Question number one,” Mooney says, looking at his notes. “Which political party do you endorse?”

“Neither,” I say.

“No one’s neutral. You either lean one way or the other.”

“I kill Democrats and Republicans alike. And anyone else who needs killing. And yes, that includes religious persuasions, in case that’s your next question.”

Mooney frowns and reads from his sheet. “Question number two. What is your religious preference?”

His face turns red.

He scans three pages of questions and finally comes up with this:

“Have you ever killed a man?”

The committee members look at each other, then at me, then burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Mooney says.

“You want me to ask him a real qualifying question?” Sherm says. “Suppose a dozen secret service personnel are jogging with the President, and we get a rumor one plans to kill him. What do you do?”

“Kill them all.”

Mooney blurts out, “What is this, a joke? The secret service is the most highly-trained security force on earth!”

“They’re easy targets,” I say.

“Why?”

“Their job is to protect the President.”

“So?”

“Who’s protecting them?”

“You’re hired!” Director Scott shouts.

Mooney says, “Wait. You’d kill innocent, loyal security personnel based on a rumor?”

“Who wouldn’t?”

Mooney’s face looks like he tasted shit pie and didn’t care for it.

“I have two quick questions, if you don’t mind,” Annie Lorber says.

I look at her.

She says, “Have you ever heard the name Tara Siegel?”

“Yes.”

“And did she kill my father?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“That’s three questions.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You said two quick questions. I answered them. Now you’ve asked a third.”

“I’ll ask all the fucking questions I want!”

“Thank you, Miss Lorber.”

“And you will answer them, if-”

She stops herself.

I smile.

“If I want this job?”

ANNIE LORBER’S SMOLDERING eyes and angry expression tell me all I need to know about the support I can expect from her. And the way Emerson’s patting her wrist to calm her down tells me their relationship has progressed beyond the boardroom. So that’s two who’d say yes to killing me, should it come to a vote.

The others are harder to read.

Emerson speaks up.

“Mr. Creed, Annie’s father and mine were murdered years ago. You just informed us Tara Siegel was involved.”

To the committee he says, “Have any of you heard the name Tara Siegel?”

It appears not.

Emerson continues. “Tara was the Donovan Creed of the east coast at one time, meaning she worked for Sensory in that area. It’s easy to piece together what happened. She wanted to take over the program back then, the same way Lou Kelly wanted to take over recently: by killing the top people. My point is this: No one in this room has heard of Tara Siegel, and Annie and I only heard of her very recently. And she’s been dead for years. Killed, apparently, by another of our Sensory operatives.”

I try to maintain a poker face in all business encounters, but that comment nearly raises my eyebrows. Because other than me, only five people in the world are supposed to know who killed Tara Siegel.

And two of them are dead.

“So?” I say.

“And none of us knew who Darwin was until Lou killed him.”

“So?”

“I think this proves we need more transparency in the agency. We’ve got trained killers running around all over the country. We’re responsible for the actions of this agency, but don’t have the slightest idea who’s working for us.”

“That’s the nature of the committee, Emerson,” Sherm says. “If we knew their names, we’d be targets. Our families…would be targets.”

“I’ve heard that all my life. But I don’t understand it.”

Sherm starts to say something, but I wave it off, saying, “Allow me.”

I look at Emerson and say, “Transparency’s a two-way street. If you know that John Smith is working for us, killing terrorists, John Smith will know who you are, and where you live. And if he gets caught and tortured, you can bet he’ll give up your names and addresses. The terrorists would gladly target your families, relatives, and friends. And of course, they’d kill you as well.”

“You have all this information about us,” Annie says. “What keeps you from giving us up to a skilled torturer?”

Sherm says, “You read the report.”

Annie frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Donovan enjoys it.”

“Enjoys what?”

“Being tortured.”

“You’re saying our family’s lives are dependent on this man’s ability to withstand torture?”

“Not just our families,” Sherm says. “The whole country.”

“That’s a bit hyperbolic, don’t you think?” she says.

“Again, Annie, you’ve read the reports. Darwin’s operatives have prevented more than twenty catastrophic events from occurring, any one of which would have crippled our capacity to function normally. And Creed recently killed more than fifty terrorists around the world with the single press of a button.”

“Your point?”

“My point is, this agency works. It has protected our society, our way of life, for many years. I’m sorry about your fathers. I’m sorry about Darwin and Lou Kelly. But Creed’s been with us from the inception. He’s had access to all our personal information for all these years, and no one’s been hurt as a result.”

Mooney bangs his gavel again, seeking attention.

“This is the most ridiculous conversation I’ve ever heard. You’re trusting America’s security to a psychotic killer who enjoys being tortured. And giving him full reign over a team of computer geniuses and psychotic killers whose names we’re not allowed to know.”

Sherm shrugs.

Preston says, “I want it on record I strongly oppose Donovan Creed’s appointment. I consider him unstable, unethical, and a serious threat to society.”

Everyone goes quiet until I ask, “What does that mean?”

“It means you’ve got the job,” Director Scott says.

“I thought I had to be approved unanimously.”

“You were.”

“When?”

“Just now.”

“What about Mr. Mooney? Everything he just said?”

“That’s him covering his ass. Isn’t that right, Preston?”

“I’m done with this,” Mooney says.

“Thanks for your vote, Preston,” I say.

“Don’t speak to me, Creed. You don’t exist in my world.”

“Thank you, Mr. Mooney.”

An hour later I’m sitting at my desk at Sensory Resources, when my cell phone buzzes.