John Locke - Lethal People

Now I was about to do it to her again, because I knew Janet was hurting and I had to ask about her. Specifically, I wondered if Janet had told Kimberly about the breakup with Chapman. I decided to jump right in. “How are the wedding plans coming?”

She paused a beat. “Okay, I guess.”

“Have the announcements gone out yet?”

“No, they’re not at that stage.”

“Have you picked out a bridesmaid’s dress?”

“That comes later.”

“Are you uncomfortable talking to me about this?”

“What do you think?” she said. “I’d rather she didn’t get married, okay? I’d rather you didn’t ask me about it. I’d rather have you both in my life. If you want to know about her wedding so much, why don’t you talk to her about it?”

I heard teenage voices in the background.

“Where are you?” I asked. “At the mall?”

My daughter made a sad sound, the kind a teenager should never have to make. It was a sound that told me that in her eyes I was not only clueless as a father, but hopeless as well.

“Just call Mom,” she said. Just like that, she was gone.

Janet regarded me as poisonous. Her take on our marriage: the single biggest mistake of her life. Had she the opportunity to do it over again, she’d have lived in sin and walked out on me the day she gave birth.

I’d be the first to admit things weren’t always perfect, but really, whose marriage is? I attribute the bad times to the crazy hours I kept, the high stress component of my job, my anger issues, the void in my chest where a heart would normally be located, the lack of sympathy and tact most people expect to find in a spouse, and the depression I suffered when the opportunity to kill people for the CIA ended so abruptly.

However, these last few years had made me a better person. I’d been far less moody lately and wanted a chance to prove to Janet how much I’d changed since the divorce. Not because (as Lauren had said) I wanted her back—I didn’t—but because of Kimberly, who was hitting the age where having an involved father was more important than ever. I just wanted to get to a place where Janet might be able to find it within her power to have some decent things to say about me to our daughter.

I glanced at the sleeping Quinn and hoped he wouldn’t wake up in the middle of an argument between me and Janet. Talking out loud to Lou about my date with Jenine had been embarrassing enough. I took a chance and dialed Janet’s number.

“What do you want?” she snapped, as if she was hours into a bad mood and suddenly turned to see me standing beside her. I ignored her tone, knowing Janet had to rev herself up in order to deal with me. I didn’t blame her for keeping her guard up. According to her shrink, she may have divorced me, but she had never been able to drain “the reservoir filled with unresolved pain from the relationship.”

Janet’s question had been a good one. What, in fact, did I want? Down deep, I guess I wondered if her breakup with Chapman could somehow provide the catalyst for friendship. Maybe she’d thought about it this afternoon and realized I wasn’t the bad guy in all this, that by making her aware of Ken’s shortcomings, I was the one who’d been looking out for her and Kimberly. If Quinn hadn’t been sitting there, I might have casually mentioned some of the good things I’d done since the marriage, like the way I helped save some lives today. I wondered if she’d develop a greater appreciation of my character if I did so.

“Did you hear about the hotel bomb in LA?” I said.

“Was that your doing?”

Or not. “Jesus, Janet.”

“So that’s a yes?”

Janet wasn’t the most classically beautiful woman I’d ever known, but she was certainly the prettiest who ever professed to love me. While some might not care for her thin, cruel lips or sharp facial features, everything about her appearance used to tantalize me.

“I’ve obviously caught you at a bad time,” I said.

“Are you for real? Any time spent talking to you is a bad time, you son of a bitch!” She screamed, “I’d rather spend ten days strapped to a machine that sucks the life out of me than spend ten seconds talking to you!” Then she hung up on me.

I thought about what she said. The part about the life-sucking machine. I wondered if such a device could be built. If so, how would it work? How large would it be? What would it cost? Would it have much value as a torture device? I couldn’t imagine anything better than the ADS weapon. It was relatively portable now, but the army was already working on a handheld version that could be functional in a matter of months. Also, with ADS, the pain is instant and so is the recovery. Now that I’d compared the two in my head, I’d have to put the ADS weapon way above Janet’s lifesucking machine idea. Then again, Janet probably hadn’t heard about the ADS weapon.

I was pretty sure she’d choose talking to me over being exposed to the ADS beam.

I thought some more about Janet and the good times we shared. Then I pressed another number on my speed dial to shake away the image of her tight body and firm, slender legs.

Sal Bonadello answered as he always did: “What.”

It was more a statement than a question.

“Tell me about Victor,” I said.

“Who?”

“It’s me, goddamn it.”

“The friggin’ attic dweller?”

“The same.”

“Where are you?” he asked. I imagined him looking at the ceiling over his head, wondering if I were up there right now. I heard he woke up from a bad dream a few months ago and pumped six rounds into the ceiling above his bedroom while screaming my name.

“Relax,” I said. “I’m in the air, somewhere over Colorado.” I noticed Quinn was beginning to stir. Maybe he’d been awake the whole time and was giving me privacy with Janet and Kimberly. You never knew for certain about Augustus Quinn or what he might be thinking at any given moment.

“I heard what happened in Jersey.”

“You sound almost disappointed.”

“Nah, not really. But hey, it’s hard to find good shooters, you know?”

“Which is why you put up with all my shit,” I said.

“Tell me about it.”

“Listen up,” I said to Sal. “You said you met Victor. Where?”

“You know I can’t—whatcha call—divulge my sources.”

“Cut the crap, will ya?”

“He needed some heavy shit. I gave him a name.”

“What kind of heavy shit?”

“Guns, drugs, explosives—shit like that.”

“And your contact required you to be there?”

“Right. Look, what about that blond of yours, the one on TV driving the van—the real one, not the bullshit picture the FBI showed. You talk to her about me yet?”

“Don’t even,” I said.

“What, I can’t dream? What, I’m not good enough for her? How about you put in a good word for me, ah? I’ll consider it a favor.”

“Do you guys go to school somewhere to learn how to talk like that?”

“Yeah, wise ass. It’s called the friggin’ school of bustin’ heads, and I’m the—whatcha call—headmaster. So, you want my help or what?”

I sighed again and realized I’d been doing a lot of sighing lately. “I’ll mention your interest to the little lady.”

“All I’m askin’.”

“Next chance I get.”

“Ask her nicely.”

“Fine.”

“’Cause you never know.”

“Right.”

“Tell her I’m a man of mystery.”

“For the love of God!” I shouted. A few feet away from me, in the cabin, Quinn did that thing where he sort of smiled. I decided to come at Sal from a different angle.

“Did you happen to catch the hotel bombing in LA?”

“What am I, blind? Everywhere I look that’s all I see on the friggin’ tube. Was that you?”