John Locke - Maybe

As we go from one patient to the next, Dr. P. offers hope, Miranda offers encouragement, and I offer revenge.

Whoever did this is going to pay.

Maybe Taylor.

“WHAT DO YOU mean she broke your nose?”

“She smashed my face with her head.”

“How did she manage to get that close to you?”

“I was trying to hold her down on the bed. She became hysterical and started thrashing about. Wait. That didn’t translate properly.”

“No shit it didn’t! So what’s the bottom line, no divorce?”

“The divorce is a certainty. She was upset about something else.”

Maybe knows Sam sucks when it comes to explaining situations where he’s completely innocent. She decides to move the conversation along.

“Are you coming to Vegas or not?”

“My plane lands at two-forty.”

“I’ll call you at three to see where you’re staying.”

“I’ve booked a suite at the Vega Rouge. Just come when you can, call me from the lobby.”

“You feel up to making the trip?”

“No. But I feel up to seeing you.”

Donovan Creed.

AFTER LEAVING THE hospital Miranda and I cross the street and enter the hotel quietly. I feel her staring at me.

“Are you okay?” she says.

“I’m good.”

She nods.

We walk down the hall in silence, enter the room, sit on the bed.

She says, “Can we talk about this?”

“Are you sure it’s ethical?” I say, and immediately wish I hadn’t.

She ignores my comment and says, “I know you, Donovan.”

She thinks she knows me. In truth, she knows very little about me.

“This has affected you deeply.”

She’s right about that.

“Look at me,” she says.

I know what she’s going to say. She’s going to tell me I need to clear my head of evil thoughts. She’ll say that giving total strangers more than fifty million dollars worth of free treatment is stunningly generous, and I should reflect on how their lives will be improved because of me. She’ll tell me not to dwell on the bad. She’ll say I need to forgive the person who did these terrible things, and move on with my life.

But when she speaks she says none of those things.

What she says is, “You’re going to catch the bastard that did this. And when you do, you’re going to torture him in the cruelest possible way.”

“Yes.”

Then she says, “You won’t turn him over to the authorities. You’ll make sure he’s dead.”

“Yes.”

“But I need to be there, Donovan. I need to talk to him.”

I look at her. “Why?”

“I need to understand his thought process. I need to know what makes him tick.”

“It’ll make you a better psychologist?”

“I believe it will.”

“Do you want to participate in the torture?”

“No. But I want to watch.”

We stare at each other a moment.

Then we attack.

To put it more accurately, Miranda attacks me. She slaps my face with both hands as hard as she can, over and over, stopping only to fall on her back and rip her blouse open. I take this as a cue to remove the rest of her clothing, which is no easy task while getting the shit slapped out of me.

Now, entering her, I expect the slapping to stop. But it intensifies! Again and again she slaps my face. She eventually makes her hands into fists and flails away at my face. Miranda’s not a skilled fighter, so I lean into her punches to intensify the effect.

When she bloodies my nose and lips she gets excited and starts bucking me. I ride it out as long as I can, which roughly translates to eighty seconds.

As you might imagine, this type of fucking is exhausting, hard work.

When we finish we’re panting like overweight dogs after a two-mile sprint.

Miranda says, “Are you okay?”

“I am.”

“Good. Now it’s my turn.”

I look at her. “What do you mean?”

“I’ll get on top while you hit me.”

I DIDN’T HIT Miranda.

But she did manage to talk me into pulling her hair from behind.

A little.

After a hot shower I inspect my puffy face and split lip in the bathroom mirror while thinking about Miranda’s perfect ACT score and her lifetime four-point-oh grade point average, and wonder briefly about the direction modern psychology is taking.

We pack everything except her torn blouse, and meet Dr. P. in the lobby, where I notice him staring at the scratches on my face.

“It took three years to create that face,” he says. “Show some respect, will you?”

“Sorry, Doc,” I say, while winking at Miranda.

Two hours later our pilot, Bob Koltech, expertly guides his jet onto the private runway outside Roanoke, Virginia, and taxies as close to the private aviation building as he can get. I sign the form, grab the rental car keys, and drive Miranda and Dr. P. to a hotel on I-81 just north of 581. Miranda and I check into our room, brush our teeth, and meet in the restaurant for sandwiches.

Dr. P. says, “I’m not sure why I’m here.”

“I’ve got an errand to run.”

Miranda says, “Can I come?”

“Yes.”

I look at Dr. P. “How about you?”

“I hate that place,” he says. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll stay here and read.”

“What place?” Miranda says.

“Sensory Resources,” Dr. P. says. “Headquarters.”

Miranda says, “Does this have anything to do with the acid guy?”

“We’re calling him Felix,” I say. “And no, it doesn’t.”

“Why Felix?”

I shrug.

Dr. P. says, “Do you have any objection to me catching a commercial flight back to Vegas?”

“I might need you.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. It’s a feeling I have.”

“A feeling.”

“That’s right.”

He frowns again. “Fine.”

“You can sit in the sun by the pool.”

He puts his index finger in the air and spins it around.

“Whoopee!” he says.

“I thought old people loved sitting in the sun, by the pool.”

“Fuck you,” he says.

“AM I ALLOWED to be pissed off?” Lou Kelly says.

Miranda and I are in the rental car, headed south on 81, bound for Sensory Resources, in Bedford, Virginia.

Wait. I know what you’re thinking. Bedford’s east of Roanoke, not south.

You’re right. I mean, that’s what I’ve always told you.

But it’s not true.

I’m trusting you with this because…well, because I trust you. You’ve known me awhile, now, and you deserve the truth. Sensory isn’t near Bedford. It’s eighty miles south-west.

Why did I lie?

We’ve always lied about the actual location. It’s what I programmed my staff and all the workers to say.

Here’s why:

Bedford’s a small town, where everyone knows everything about everyone else. There are people in Bedford who contact us when strangers show up asking questions about Sensory Resources, Donovan Creed, Lou Kelly, Callie Carpenter, Jarvis Kent, Jeff Tuck, Joe Penny, and the various assassins and bomb-builders who work for us, as well as the doctors and security personnel who work at the Sensory facility.