John Locke - Maybe

“That’s impossible,” I say.

“Not impossible at all. I peed in this till it filled up. Then I drank it.”

“Bullshit. First of all, you could never direct your stream into that ridiculous thimble. Second, -why are you smiling?”

“How long have you known me, Donovan?”

“Twelve million years.”

“That feels about right. Especially today. And you’re an expert on sewing now?”

“Of course not. But I know enough about anatomy to emphatically state you didn’t pee in that thimble.”

“And if I stubbornly persist in saying I did, what does that make me?”

“I don’t know. What, a stubborn idiot?”

“And yet, over the last several hours you’ve told me Sam Case is in that room, and he’s alive, despite all the proof I’ve offered.”

“I know he’s in that room. And I know he’s alive.”

“You know what that room is, Donovan?”

“What’s that?”

“Your thimble.”

I point down the hall. “Room 228 is my thimble.”

“That’s right. And your reasoning doesn’t hold water.”

I wonder how she came up with all that based on me sniffing the drain. I hate it when the people who work for me prove, time and again, how much smarter they are than me.

Callie says, “The coast is clear. So, what now? Want me to call the room?”

“Nope.”

“Knock on the door?”

“Nope.”

“Find the superintendant? I can distract him while you enter.”

“Nope.”

She frowns. “We can’t kick the door down.”

“Follow me,” I say, and lead her to the room. When we get there, I stand behind the wall left of the door, and motion Callie to hug the wall to the right. The wall wouldn’t protect us from assassins, because professional killers would shoot through the walls first. But if Sam or some other civilian inside starts shooting, we’d expect them to shoot through the door.

Civilian shooters are like college quarterbacks at the start of a big game. Their adrenalin kicks in and they always aim high.

Which is why I motion Callie to go low.

She takes a knee, puts her hand in her purse-handbag-and nods, to let me know she’s gripping her gun.

I take a key card from my pocket, reach my arm across the door, slide the card through the lock. It clicks open. I turn the handle and push. The door opens maybe an inch. I take a deep breath, glance at Callie to make sure she’s ready to storm the room.

She’s not.

She’s shaking her head, frowning.

“What’s wrong?”

“You’ve got a key?”

“Think about it.”

She does.

Then smiles.

“Sam used your name when checking in. You went to the front desk, showed your ID, told them you left your key in the room. They gave you another key.”

“Exactly. Now it’s your turn.”

“For what?”

“How did you manage to pee all this time?”

Callie rolls her eyes. “Let it go.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“You’re wearing pants.”

“Our generation calls them jeans.”

“You wouldn’t have pulled your jeans off in the hallway. And even if you did, you couldn’t have hiked your leg up and hit the drain without dribbling down the front of the ice machine.”

“Donovan.”

“Yeah?”

“Let’s see what’s inside the room.”

“Okay.”

I PUSH THE door open and duck back behind the wall while Callie gets a view of the room. As the door starts to rebound and close I say, “Good to go?”

“Yes! Bathroom’s on the right.”

“Be careful!”

Before the door swings shut on its own, Callie pushes it again, and hurls herself past the open area that leads to the bathroom. It’s a thing of beauty, watching Callie fly through the air, gun in hand, ready to shoot whoever might be lying in wait. It’s a fraction of a second in real time, but when you do what we do, as long as we’ve done it, time stands still, giving a guy like me time to admire the athletic grace of a truly amazing killing machine like Callie Carpenter. It’s like watching Michael Jordan in his prime. You know you’re seeing something special, a once-in-a-generation talent.

I come in high, just behind her, running directly toward the bathroom, in case someone’s trying to draw a bead on Callie.

But no one’s there.

“Bedroom’s clear,” she says.

“Closet’s clear,” I say.

I wait for her to retrieve her purse from the hallway. She does, and re-enters the room and closes the door. I’m standing in front of the closed bathroom door. A sitting duck if Sam starts shooting.

I motion Callie to stand out of the line of fire.

She does, but says, “He’s being awfully quiet for a live guy.”

I call out, “Sam?”

“Before you go in,” Callie says, “I’d like to put some money on it.”

“You’re that sure he’s dead?”

“Yes.”

I think about it. Everything in my experience tells me Sam’s in the bathroom, lying in the tub, unconscious. Of course, this would mean he’s been unconscious a long, long time.

Highly unlikely.

But Callie said Maybe was cool as a cucumber when she left. Crimes of passion leave you edgy, and haggard. Not to mention if Maybe had blood on her clothing, Callie would’ve noticed.

“A hundred says Sam’s alive,” I say.

“A hundred grand?”

“No. A hundred dollars.”

“Make it five hundred,” she says.

“Fine.”

I turn the bathroom door handle, open the door.

Callie Carpenter.

CALLIE LOVES WORKING with Creed. When the two of them are together, it adds an element of fun to the job. Plus, they’re unstoppable. Whether it’s something simple, like charging a hotel room, or huge, like attacking an enemy stronghold, they have the perfect chemistry for orchestrating lethal violence.

Callie loves his quirks!

There’s no one on earth she adores more than Creed, though she’d never admit it. She’s naturally in tune with him and has been, since the day he brought her into the business.

When he’s around, there’s nothing she’d rather do than tease or torment him.

Take today, for example. She had all afternoon and evening to think about the best way to fuck with his mind. Being Callie, she managed to come up with five great possibilities. But the one she knew would drive him crazy is if he couldn’t figure out how she managed to pee.

Why would it cross her mind in the first place?

Those who follow people for a living, or spend hours staking out homes, hotel rooms, or businesses, know there’s nothing more important than having a plan for using the bathroom. How many times has a person escaped surveillance at the exact moment the investigator left his post to find a place to pee?

It never fails.

Creed knows this and knows Callie would never take her eyes off the target. Therefore, he’d expect Callie to have something in her handbag. A large to-go coffee cup with a lid, for example.

Which is exactly what Callie used twice while maintaining her surveillance on Sam’s hotel room door.

Knowing Creed would arrive soon, Callie climbed on top of the ice machine, lifted a ceiling tile, and hid her pee cup on top of the adjoining tile. Then she put the first one back in place, dusted the top and sides of the ice machine, to remove any ceiling tile particles that might be visible.