John Locke - Maybe

“THE PROBLEM WITH this business,” Dr. P. says, “You can’t get out.”

“Tell me about it,” I say.

We’ve been talking ten minutes, long enough to go through the whole “How did you know?” phase.

I just knew.

Something had been nagging at me the whole trip out here. Dr. P. was visibly nervous about taking a trip with me until I explained why we were going to Louisville. Once there, he was terrific with the hospital personnel and the Derby State Fair patients. But he was even more nervous about coming to Sensory Resources. He even wanted to book a flight back to Vegas.

Dr. P. was on the team that planted the chip. He was a staple at Sensory before I arrived. So why didn’t I suspect him before now?

He didn’t seem the type.

Which is exactly how he survived all these years, undetected.

First of all, you’d never expect a world-class surgeon to be a cold-blooded killer or head up a team that gathers intelligence, conducts assassinations, cleans crime scenes, harvests body-doubles, and makes shady back room deals with high-ranking government officials.

I mean, who has the time?

And second, if it could possibly be a world-class surgeon, you’d expect it to be Doc Howard, not Doc Petrovsky. Doc Howard was the crusty, take-charge head of Sensory’s hospital and surgical center. He ran the place. Dr. P. was his trusted employee. It hit me while viewing Doc Howard’s body. The logical successor to Doc Howard was Dr. P.

But Dr. P. didn’t want the job. Didn’t even want to step foot in the place.

Why?

Because he’s Darwin.

And tired of it.

He wants to do what I’ve thought about doing a hundred times.

Retire.

In his case, to Vegas, where he can end his years working in a private practice he owns. He possibly hopes to meet someone, have a social life.

He’s sitting on the side of the bed. I’m in the straight-back chair by the desk. The curtains are closed. I make a note to avoid hitting the hanging lamp when I stand.

To his credit, Dr. P. didn’t bother denying his identity.

“What happens now?” he says.

“I’ve always wondered if retirement was possible.”

“It’s not. They always find you.”

“They haven’t found you yet.”

“Well…” he turns his wrists, showing me his empty hands. Implying I found him.

“You framed Doc Howard?”

“Yes.”

“Does Lou know you’re Darwin?”

“No.”

“Who does?”

“No one.”

“That’s not possible. Washington knows, yes? And someone at Homeland Security.”

“The original people knew. I’m speaking of Watkins and Lorber, but they’ve been dead for years. Sherm Phillips and the others have been on board since 9/11, and they were told from the start that Doc Howard was Darwin.”

“Why?”

“Bill Lorber set it up that way to protect the program. He and I felt Doc was expendable. If we screwed up, killed the wrong people, or leaked the wrong information, Doc would take the fall, and we could continue our work.”

“Doc was on board with that?”

“Yes, because there was extra money for that contingency. A slush fund was set up in his name, one he could access on the date of his termination.”

“To help cope with the possible public disgrace?” I say.

“Something like that.”

I smile. Doc was the most money-hungry man I ever met.

“Must’ve been a hell of a slush fund.”

“It was, and still is.”

I say, “So the head of Homeland told Sherm Phillips and the others that Doc was to be known only as Darwin?”

“That’s right. We set it up that way because Sensory Resources is too valuable to be a political pawn of whichever party controls Congress at any given moment.”

“The show must go on,” I say.

“Exactly. But when you bought the spa and plastic surgery center and offered me a job, I saw it as a way to put this life behind me.”

“You seriously want to run a private surgical center?”

“Very much so.”

“You don’t need the money.”

He smiles. “You’ve been quite generous.”

“I’m sure you were wealthy long before I started paying you.”

“I was indeed. But every little bit helps.”

“What about my daughter?”

“Kimberly? What about her?”

I watch him carefully while saying, “She’s got a benefactor.”

“A benefactor,” he says.

“That’s right. Someone taught her how to kill people, then paid her to kill them. You know anything about that?”

“Yes.”

“Was it you?”

“No.”

We look at each other a moment, then he says, “You’re referring to Sam Case.”

“Excuse me?”

“I only learned this very recently,” he says.

“What does Sam know about killing?”

“Believe it or not, he’s been running a team of assassins for a year.”

“Kimberly being one of them.”

“Yes.”

“Kimberly told me the man who hired her uses a voice-altering device.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve used such a device for the past twenty years.”

“That’s correct.”

“Does Kimberly know the voice belongs to Sam Case?”

“Yes.”

“Is he posing as a pre-Rapture pet salesman?”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“Is Kimberly… dating …Sam Case?”

Without taking his eyes off mine he says, “No. Sam is in Area B at Mount Weather, and hasn’t left the facility since day one. I’ve been monitoring his activities from the moment I learned he hired Kimberly to kill Jonah Toth. You’ll remember Toth used to guard Kimberly. When you discharged him from that duty, I put him back on the payroll, posing as a college professor. And before you ask, I don’t know how or why Sam selected Toth or any of the other victims.”

He lets that sentence hang in the air a minute, but I can tell he knows more than he’s saying. He’s hesitating because he’s concerned how it’s going to come across.

I say, “This is a good time to come clean about everything you know, because I’ll eventually find the truth. And when I do, I’ll hold you accountable for what you’ve left out.”

“I know something about Kimberly, but it’s highly sensitive.”

“I’ll keep that in mind as you tell me.”

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Then says, “I know you’re concerned Kimberly might be having sex with Sam. I can tell you emphatically she’s not. I know for a fact she’s not having sex with anyone.”

“Why’s that?”

“She has serious issues regarding sex.”

I frown. “How serious?”

“She met with a psychiatrist regularly for months, until he was murdered in his office. Are you aware of her condition?”

“No. And I don’t want to hear about it from you.”

“Fair enough.”

“Do you know who she’s dating?”

“I think she’s making it up about dating a young man.”

“That’s her cover story for doing hits for Sam Case?”

“I can’t say. But if she’s dating at all, it’s quite recent. And I know nothing about it.”

“Rachel heard I slept with a young woman in Vegas.”

“Gwen Peters.”

“Is there anything about my life you don’t know?”

“I don’t know if you’re going to kill me today.”

I allow that comment to hang in the air a long time before saying, “I assume Gwen told Kimberly we had sex, then Kimberly told Sam, and Sam told Rachel.”

“That’s probably accurate.”

“And you believe Sam paid Kimberly to kill people? Without ever meeting her in person?”