John Locke - Wish List

She got murdered.

Knowing the Cincinnati cops wouldn’t dig too deeply into her case, I took it upon myself to track down her killer. It took me less than two days to find him: not a paranoid politician, as I’d suspected, but a sniveling real estate salesman with anger issues. I devoted two full days to the task of making him pay for what he’d done.

For the bulk of my life, my closest female friends have been hookers and killers, and if you want to judge me by that, go for it.

But don’t judge them.

And especially don’t judge Lauren Jeter.

Lauren had been a terrific provider. She was always happy to see me, always made me feel wanted. She was a gifted listener, an excellent therapist who tried her best to understand me. At one point, Lauren endured a great deal of pain on my behalf, in order to help me convince my ex-wife to break off her engagement to a guy who was all wrong for her. Like the finest women who’ve touched my life, Lauren was so much more than a caring companion, great conversationalist, or good lay. She excelled at not judging me, and making our time together memorable. She was one of the highlights of my life, and I miss her terribly.

All that’s left of her is her kid brother, Buddy Pancake.

Doesn’t hardly seem fair, does it?

The second reason I’m willing to help Buddy: my girlfriend, Rachel Case, lives in Louisville, and I haven’t seen her in months. It would be nice to spend some time with her, and see how she’s doing.

It was nine-thirty. I was in Chicago, with access to a number of private jets that could get me to Louisville in under an hour, so I had a world of time before our six a.m. meeting.

I fired up my laptop and typed wishlist.bz in the address bar. Once on the website, I read the promos and comments but decided not to make any wishes. Instead, I called my old friend, Lou Kelly. When he answered I said, “Where’s Jinny Kidwell?”

“The actress?”

“Uh huh.”

“You want to hold or have me call you back?”

“Call me back. I’ve got to pack.”

“Gimme ten minutes.”

Twenty years ago, Lou and I worked as hired assassins for the CIA in Europe. I was early twenties, Lou was forty. We survived that gig for twelve years and eventually made our way stateside, where I landed a job killing terrorists for Homeland Security. Lou headed up my intelligence team. At the height of the action, I had a dozen assassins on my team, helping me keep democracy safe. During my down time I performed freelance hits for the mob.

Six months ago I managed to steal billions of dollars from some of the world’s most lethal people. After banking the big score, I retired from the government and mob killing jobs. I’d been told that once in, you can never get out alive, but I had a plan. First, I told both organizations I would consider future requests for work. Second, I set up five hundred million dollar annuities for Darwin, my Homeland Security boss, and Sal Bonadello, crime boss for the Midwestern United States. The money would be paid to their numbered accounts monthly by my lawyers, a million dollars a month for the rest of their lives, and their kids’ lives, with one stipulation: all future payments would cease upon my death.

My plan worked.

Darwin and Sal no longer want to kill me.

They want to protect me!

Lou Kelly was a trusted member of the team that helped me obtain the huge score, and because of all our years together, his share of the take was also five hundred million, all in cash. Unfortunately, during the heist, the size of the prize got to Lou, and he tried to kill me and take my share.

Despite our trust issues, Lou and I were able to rebuild a working relationship. I let him keep his half-billion dollars from the heist, along with his life, and in return he provides the intelligence and computer expertise I require from time to time.

Lou is the best in the business. He had the answer on Jinny before I finished packing, and that’s fast, since I travel light.

“She’s on location in Hannibal, Missouri.”

“Which hotel?”

“No hotel. A Trailer. In Riverview Park.”

“A trailer?”

“A movie star trailer. Trust me, it’s nice.”

“What type of security do they have?”

“I’ll have to get back to you on that,” he said, and we terminated the call.

I contacted one of the many charter flight companies in Chicago I knew, and selected a Lear 45 for the short flight. As I boarded and waited for the engines to fire, Lou called to describe what the satellite photos had revealed about the security team guarding the actors’ trailers in Riverview Park. Thirty minutes later I touched down at Hannibal Regional Airport.

Lou Kelly used to book my jets and drivers, but like I said, the trust ain’t what it once was, so I’ve been forced to handle my own travel arrangements. Climbing down the jet’s gangway, I was pleased to see my driver waiting beside a black sedan with all four doors open, as I’d specified.

“Can I trust you?” I said.

“Of course, sir.”

“Your name?”

“Harrison Ford.”

“Okay, Harrison. Please remove your jacket and place it on the hood of the car. Then assume the position while I pat you down.”

“Sir, I can assure you—”

“I’m sure you can, and I’ve told you how. Now let’s see you do it.”

I noticed the pilots standing beside me appeared to be concerned. I shrugged at them as if to say, “What’s with this guy, huh?” But that seemed to make them even more nervous, so I said, “Relax. I’m good with you guys.”

The Lear captain said, “His name really Harrison Ford?”

“It’s a code name. Still, you can’t be too sure with a new driver.”

I saw them give each other an uneasy look.

“Guys, I spent weeks checking you out. I know everything about you.” I paused, looked them squarely in the eyes, and said, “Everything. I could demonstrate my knowledge of your lives, but you already seem nervous enough. Let’s just say we’re cool. I’m sure Harrison Ford will become a trusted friend tonight, as well. It’s just that I haven’t had time to check him out yet. Hannibal’s a small town, and I don’t have any contacts here.”

My reassuring talk with the pilots didn’t have the effect I intended, so I shrugged, patted my driver down, searched his car, and found nothing more sinister than a couple of tuna fish sandwiches and an unopened bottle of water. I had him climb in first, and I took the rear seat directly behind him, and we drove to Riverview Park, where I saw the movie set guards on duty.

“Keep driving,” I said. He took me a quarter mile past the entrance, then I had him turn right on a road that ran parallel to the park. “Follow it to the end, and let me out. Meet me here when I call, which I’m guessing will be an hour or so.”

He dropped me off and I jogged across the grass, toward the trailers that housed the movie stars. It was a short run, well under a mile, and when I came up behind Jinny Kidwell’s trailer, I could see there were no guards stationed there, which confirmed Lou Kelly’s suspicion that they were rental cops, not pros. I picked the lock and entered her trailer through the back door.

Once in, I realized I was alone. I knew Jinny was on site, so I decided to wait in her bedroom. While waiting, I took out a penlight, held it in my teeth, and searched through her belongings.

Forty minutes later I heard her come in the door. Lou had told me that Jinny’s husband, Pete Rossman, was here from time to time, but I could tell from the sound of the footsteps out front that she was alone. She busied herself in the kitchen a few minutes before entering her bedroom.

I had my hand over her mouth before she’d gone three feet. She tried to scream, but my thumb was pressed so hard against her neck that all she could manage was a whisper.