John Locke - Maybe

I’m riding backwards, in one of the captain’s chairs, facing Miranda. Dr. P. is semi-reclining on the sofa, facing me. He’s either napping, or pretending to nap. He told me Sam hasn’t left the bunker at Area B. Either that’s a lie, or Sam found a way to leave and re-enter Area B undetected.

I don’t think Dr. P. is lying about Sam. If he truly wants to retire from the business, why bother lying about Sam?

We’re at 40,000 feet now, and there’s no way Dr. P. can listen in on my calls while I’m watching him.

I call Callie.

“Hi boss,” she says.

“What’s up?”

“Same old. Can you talk?”

“Yes.”

“She’s still in there.”

“Have you gotten close enough to listen?”

“No. I don’t know how extensive her training has been, but if I’m close enough to hear, I’m close enough to be noticed through the peep hole.”

“Where are you?”

Callie laughs. “Down the hall, in the cubby with the ice machine. I’m using my makeup mirror to keep an eye on the room.”

“And Gwen?”

Callie sighs. “Gwen’s texting me to death. I’m either going to have to get a new girlfriend or get out of the business.”

“The pretty ones are always high maintenance,” I say, noting the smirk on Miranda’s pretty face. She glances behind her to make sure she’s not being watched, then lifts her tank top and gives me a double.

I smile, enjoying the view. She allows me five seconds of entertainment before putting the twins back to bed.

Callie says, “I can think of a dozen ways to get in their hotel room. And all of them involve eating a sandwich while watching the Dani Ripper thing on TV. After I tie Sam and Maybe to their chairs, of course.”

“I’ll bring you some fries,” I say. “In the meantime, eat ice.”

“Forget the fries. You’re buying me and Gwen a steak dinner at Switch.”

“She’ll eat steak?”

“On steak day.”

“She has a steak day?”

“Steak day, fruit day, smoothie day, vegetable day, sweet day-how many is that?”

“Who gives a shit?” I say.

“Good point.”

She pauses, then says, “Remember the last time we went there?”

“Switch?”

“Yeah.”

“I do. A lot’s happened since then.”

We go quiet while I think about Kathleen and she thinks about Eva.

Finally she says, “I’ll let you know if something changes.”

“Thanks.”

I look at my watch. We’re three hours from Vegas.

Miranda says, “Can I buy a few things when we land?”

“I won’t have time. But I’ll get you a car and driver and give you a credit card.”

“Where are we staying?”

“Vega Rouge.”

“That’s the one with the big mall and cool restaurants?”

“I think so.”

“And you’re going there straight from the airport?”

“I am.”

“Then I’ll go with you!” she says. “I can check in for us and shop till you call me.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I say.

“How many days will we be together?”

“As many as it takes to catch Felix.”

“Can you catch him within a week?”

“You’ve got a whole week?”

Miranda smiles. “For you? Yes.”

“In that case, I’ll catch him quickly. Then we’ll go somewhere fun.”

“Where?”

“Let’s ask the twins.”

She lifts her top again, gives her torso a shake.

I love hanging out with the twins.

Miles Gundy.

THE HSV-1 VIRUS is one of Miles’s favorites. This is the basic cold sore virus most people contract before age six. When the cold sore goes away, the virus remains in the body for life, appearing from time to time for no predictable reason.

There’s no permanent cure for HSV-1.

It’s contagious, and spreads through direct contact, as Miles learned four months ago when combining it with the highly toxic agent, dimethylmercury. On that occasion he spilled a single drop on his gloved hand. As a result, Miles is dying. The only reason he’s still alive? He immediately underwent treatment for mercury poisoning.

Upon contact, Dimethylmercury enters the bloodstream and slowly works its way to the brain. It generally takes four months to notice the first symptoms, but when it comes, it’s quick. Your speech slurs, you drop things, you stumble into walls. Three weeks later, you die.

But by combining the poison with the live HSV-1 virus, Miles created a toxic stew that will enter the skin of anyone who touches the barre for the next two hours. Because the Dancing Barre ladies are exercising, it’s only a matter of time before they’ll wipe the sweat from their eyes, noses, or mouths, at which point Miles’s concoction will enter their mucous membranes. The ladies will be symptom-free for ten days, but they’ll die four days later.

Two weeks from now, when doctors realize the instructor and every member of the 3:15 p.m. exercise class died on the same day, people all over the country will fear exercise classes.

It would be nice to think his concoction would have far-reaching effects, where one infected person would infect ten, and those ten would infect ten more, but it doesn’t work that way. The entire life cycle of the contagion is about four and a half hours, meaning, anyone not infected by 7:30 pm tonight will be safe. What’s worse, only about five percent of infected people will prove to be carriers of the disease.

That is not to say Miles hasn’t made an impact.

Take Joy Adams, for example. Joy reserved the last spot for the 3:15 p.m. exercise class at Dancing Barre . After class, she’ll catch a plane to visit her sister in Roanoke, Virginia. She’ll hold her boarding pass in her contaminated hands and pass it to the gate attendant, who’ll be dead fourteen days later. On the plane, Joy will touch the arm rests, the tray table, the overhead compartment latch, her water bottle, her drink glass and napkin, the in-flight magazine, and any number of other items. Until about 7:30 p.m. some or all of those items will be infected, and the chances are high at least another dozen people will come into contact with them.

When Joy disembarks her plane, she’ll embrace her sister and brother-in-law and their two kids, and their dog. The dog will be fine, but the family won’t. That night, they’ll take her out to dinner at Chez Villesa, where she’ll enter the restroom at 7:23 p.m. After peeing, she’ll use the soap dispenser, at which point the virus will have approximately seven minutes to live.

What are the odds the very next woman who touches the soap dispenser will be that one-in-twenty person who can spread the virus during the final seven minutes?

Donovan Creed.

TWO HOURS OUT of Vegas, my cell phone vibrates.

“What’s happened?”

Callie says, “Maybe just left the room.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Perfect. How did she look?”

“Cool as a cucumber.”

“Good. You want to try to get in?”

“Yes. If I hurry, he’ll probably think Maybe left something behind.”

“Let me know when you’re in.”

“Will do.”

We hang up. Five minutes later, Callie calls.

“What’s up?”

“No answer.”

“You knocked loudly?”

“Yes. And called the room. You think she killed him?”

“No.”

“Then what?”