John Locke: Now and then

There are people in this world who move through our lives quietly, unassumingly, who, seeking nothing in return, take away our pain.

The young reporter's name was Joe, and he was unhappy about the assignment. He had to interview the lead in a college play and try to make the segment interesting enough to fill two minutes on the local TV news. He'd rather be covering a murder or congressional scandal, but Joe was new to the station, and dues had to be paid. He'd come here tired and his back was killing him from the elbow shot he'd taken in last night's rugby game.

When Libby Vail entered the room he showed her where to sit, and after the camera guy spent a few minutes checking the lighting, Joe tried to sound like he gave a shit about the interview.

But he didn't.

It was such a small-town production, and Libby, while certainly adequate for this role, was an unlikely candidate for Broadway stardom. As Joe slogged through the list of bullshit questions, he couldn't help but notice the light tingling in his back where the pain had been. As the pain dissipated, a feeling of euphoria began sweeping over him. Were the anti-inflammatories finally kicking in?

Just before wrapping up, he said, "Tell me something about you that few people know."

Libby Vail's face grew animated. She looked from side to side, as if sharing a scandalous secret.

"Well," she said, "Don't tell anyone, but I'm a direct descendant of Jack Hawley, the pirate."

Joe gave her a confused look.

"Gentleman Jack Hawley?" Libby said.

"Sorry, never heard of him."

Libby giggled. "Oh well."

Joe signaled the cameraman to pack his gear.

"Sorry I wasn't more interesting," Libby said.

Joe took a moment to glance at her. Was she pouting over her complete snooze of an interview? She didn't appear to be. He studied her a moment longer and decided Libby Vail was a pretty little thing, frail, with big green eyes and an expressive face.

"You did fine," he said.

"Really?"

Joe prepared to ease himself to a standing position but suddenly realized there was no "easing" necessary. His back was completely fine. There had to be something more at work here than anti-inflammatories. Crazy as it seemed, there was something about being near Libby Vail that made him feel stronger, more energetic. Without giving a second thought to his former back injury, he took up a swashbuckling pose, pretended to cut a swath of air with his imaginary sword. Then he removed his pen and note pad from his pocket and started to write.

"Jack Hawley, you said?"

Libby's laugh spilled out of her smile. " Gentleman Jack Hawley."

She stood and brandished her own imaginary sword, struck a pirate's pose, and said, "Arrr!"

Joe laughed and said, "Aye, Aye, wench. That just might be the angle this story needs."

That night his station ran the story.

Three days later he had an even better story:

Libby Vail had gone missing.

IT WAS ONE of those arguments you could see coming a mile away.

"Things are going great between us," Rachel said.

I nodded, warily.

We were on the porch swing of The Seaside, a bed and breakfast in St. Alban's Beach, Florida. It was early evening, and the light summer breeze from the ocean kept the mosquitoes at bay. We'd had dinner at Chez Vous, a pretentious little grease pit on Cane Street, and though I'd rate our meal somewhere between appalling and insulting, neither of us seemed worse for the fare.

"You love me," Rachel said.

"I do."

"And I'm fun, right?"

"Undeniably."

"Just imagine how much fun we'd have if we lived together!"

I didn't respond, didn't so much as lift an eyelid.

"Kevin?"

"Mmm?"

"What do you think?"

It was one of those moments when you have to be honest or happy, and you can't be both.

"Kevin?"

A train rumbled faintly in the distance. Rachel's head was in my lap. She looked up at me, studying my face, as I rocked the swing with my feet.

"Kevin?"

Rachel knows my name is Donovan Creed, but she'd met me as Kevin Vaughn, and she's comfortable calling me that, so I don't make a big deal out of it.

"Know what I think?" I said.

"What's that, honey?" she purred.

"I think things are perfect just the way they are."

Her body stiffened a half-second before reacting-a useful bit of information to file in my brain, since my continued existence often comes down to knowing such details. Compared to most humans, a half-second is quick. In my line of work (I kill people) it's a lifetime.

Literally.

So Rachel was painfully slow by my standards, a good thing, since her bi-polar personality dysfunction had become more pronounced each day of our vacation, occasionally leading to sudden violent outbursts. I love dating her, but my life could be in danger with a live-in relationship. As long as I remain conscious, she can't seriously harm me. But if we were to live together I'd eventually have to sleep, and all bets would be off.

"You're a fucking bastard and I don't want to see you, ever again!" Rachel shrieked.

She jumped off my lap and launched her hand toward my face. I could have easily avoided the slap, but it had been weeks since I'd sparred, and I missed the physical contact. She smacked me two, three times, grabbed her purse, slung it over her shoulder, and stomped off into the dusk.

Rachel had been slightly unstable even before she'd been locked in a Lucite container for two days and nights. I busted her out, what, two weeks ago? Since then we'd been on vacation, making our way down the Atlantic coast, hitting all the beaches of consequence, while her mental condition steadily deteriorated.

You may be wondering how I managed to catch a few hours of sleep while traveling with Rachel.

Simple: I drugged her.

So sure, I could move in and live with Rachel, bring my pills and knock her unconscious every night, but in the long run that's no basis for maintaining a healthy relationship.

I closed my eyes and listened to her cuss a blue streak as she moved down the road. Her fury was almost poetic, as sudden and dangerous as a cyclone. She was heading north on A1A toward Amelia Island Plantation, the place where my associate, Callie Carpenter, and I killed a woman named Monica Childers five years ago.

ANGRY OR NOT, Rachel was kick-ass sexy in that mouth-watering, leave-your-wife sort of way, with long brown hair; blonde highlights, and eyes the color of tupelo honey.

I let her get a half-mile down the road before starting after her. When we'd gone about a mile, I moved to within three feet and remained behind her, matching her pace, giving her space in case she wasn't ready to talk. I shadowed her like that until I suddenly felt something that's hard to describe. It was a type of serene presence, like a drug-induced high, but calming and blissful. One minute I'm normal, the next I'm practically euphoric, and then it passed.

Rachel felt it too.

She stopped abruptly, but didn't turn around.

"Am I crazy, Kevin?"

"You might be the sanest person I know," I said, thinking that was a sad thing to have to admit.

"I'm sorry I hit you."

"That was a million years ago."

She turned and put her arms around me and kissed my mouth. Then we turned it into a full body hug, right there in the middle of the highway.

It was a quiet night, the cars few and far between, and we headed back toward the bed and breakfast. The tall grass on the shoulders swayed in the breeze, and I kept us in the middle of the road so the ticks wouldn't get on her legs.