John Locke - A Girl Like You

Maybe it’s not so simple.

What does appear simple is how the psychiatrists always put it on me. What are they basing it on, the fact that after dating me she went nuts? Big deal. Sure, Rachel’s symptoms got worse after we became a couple. But that could’ve been a timing issue. Maybe she was already going crazy. Or maybe some other variable caused the sudden change in her mental health. I mean, Rachel never ate crawfish until I fried her up a batch on our third date. But you don’t hear anyone blaming the crawfish, do you?

I notice the lighted display on the cabin wall. The one that shows we’re still an hour from Louisville. I think about fetching a mini bottle of bourbon from the liquor cabinet, but decide to keep my faculties sharp.

I stare at my cell phone some more, then dial another number.

Billy “the Kid” King answers.

“Hi Billy, it’s me, Donovan Creed.”

He pauses.

I say, “Remember me?”

“Yeah, I remember you. You’re the asshole who sucker-kicked me. You broke my nose, you son of a bitch. I hope you’re happy.”

“Happiness is a state of mind, Billy.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means you bring your own weather to the picnic.”

“You’re a nutjob. What do you want?”

“I’m planning my schedule for the next few weeks.”

“So?”

“How does next Friday look for you?”

“What’re you talking about?”

“I’m terribly busy, so I can’t make any promises at this time. But I’ll pencil you in for next Friday, eight a.m. You want to meet at the gym, or should I swing by your office?”

“For what?”

“So I can break your nose again.”

“What? I’m not even healed yet!”

“I know,” I say. “Bad timing. For you, I mean.”

He says, “I’m getting a body guard. What do you think about that?”

“I think you should find a really good one.”

“Oh, I will, don’t worry.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“You may not sound scared,” Billy says, “but you’re scared all right. And you should be!”

“Well, if I should be, I’ll try my best. But make sure he’s got insurance. You’d be surprised how many of these guys don’t have adequate coverage.”

“The fuck?”

“You don’t want to get stuck with his medical bills.”

“I’m not worried.”

“Maybe you should be.”

“Why’s that?”

“Think how pissed he’ll be when he learns you hired him to protect you from me.”

“I checked around already,” Billy says. “No one knows you.”

“You haven’t checked high enough.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re checking fighters, right?”

“Yeah, so what?”

“You need to check assassins.”

He pauses again. Then hangs up.

8.

Medford is the income-producing private hospital I helped Rachel purchase six months ago. The building is a hundred-year-old historical structure comprised of hand-cut stone, built to last. Ten years ago it was completely renovated into the three-story hospital that operates beneath the enormous penthouse apartment where Rachel Case lives with Nadine Crouch, my former psychiatrist. Nadine has been quietly caring for Rachel for months.

It takes me two hours to check every square inch of Rachel’s penthouse. But it’s what I find in her bedroom that tells me all I need to know: a single juice box, lying on the floor by the baseboard. The box was clearly hurled at the first person that entered her bedroom, and the pattern it made on the wall, the door, and the floor clearly identified…

Nothing.

I’m kidding about finding a clue.

I mean, there is a juice box on the floor, and a stain from where she’d hurled it, but unless I run into someone with a juice box stain on their clothes, I’ve got squat. I check the answering machine. No messages. I check the mail pile. Nothing out of the ordinary. I check the back door and see that no marks were made to gain entry. I check the stairs they would have used to enter, and know they had Rachel on this very staircase three days ago. I take the stairs one flight down to visit Nadine.

“How do you feel?” I ask.

“Terrible.”

I believe her. She looks terrible. Then again, she suffered a heart attack and was in a coma for several days.

“Have you been to the apartment?” she says.

“I have.”

“Find anything?”

“Nope.”

She nods.

I say, “How many of them were there?”

“Five, I think.”

“You think?”

“I saw five. Two with Rachel, two with me, one in the living room by the back door.”

“No one on the front door?”

She closes her eyes, thinking about it.

“I can’t say for certain. There was probably another one at that door. I didn’t see him.”

“All men?”

“Yes. Far as I could tell.”

“Did they all wear the same type of clothes?”

“The ones I saw, yes.”

“Were their faces covered?”

“Yes.”

“Any insignias on their clothing?”

She thinks a minute. “No.”

I nod. “Did there seem to be one person in charge?”

“Yes.”

“Where was he?”

“In the hallway.”

“In the—Wait. So there were at least six people, not five.”

“Right.”

I shake my head. “Nadine, you’re going to have to do better.”

“I’m sorry, Donovan. Between the drugs and what I’ve been through, it’s hard to be precise about these sorts of details.”

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s forget about the men who took her. For now. We can revisit this later, if necessary.”

“Okay.”

“Tell me everyone who’s been to the apartment in the past two weeks.”

“No one’s been there.”

“No pizza or Chinese food delivery?”

“No.”

“No mailman? No pest control guy?”

She thinks a moment. “No. The mailman delivers to the box in the hall. Pest control is once a month, scheduled for next week.”

“Any packages get delivered recently?”

She shakes her head.

“You’re certain?”

“Positive.”

“Okay. Tell me every place you and Rachel have been the past two weeks.”

“Easy. We haven’t been anyplace.”

“I doubt that. A spa treatment? Hair salon? Nail Salon? Walk in the park? A doctor’s appointment? A dentist?”

“No. I mean, I walk in the park, but not Rachel. She uses her elliptical machine.”

“When you’re in the park, does she answer the door?”

“Never.”

“And you haven’t been shopping?”

“Not the past two weeks.”

“Why not?”

“Her behavior’s been erratic. I’ve purposely kept her inside. She was actually improving the night before the kidnapping. I probably would have taken her out that day…”

Her voice trailed off.

“What?”

“There was a doctor’s appointment,” she says.

“When?”

“Ten or twelve days ago, I can’t remember exactly.”

“What day of the week?”

“Monday.”

“So…Monday before last?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Eleven days. What type of doctor?”

“General Practitioner.”

“Was she sick? Did she hurt herself somehow?”

“No. I set it up after she mentioned she hadn’t been to the doctor in ten years.”

“Ten years? How is that possible?”

“She’s got a needle phobia. She’s never given blood.”

“Never? What about before she got married?”

“She and Sam got married in Vegas.”

“So you got her to give blood?”

“I did. But she was very unhappy about it afterward.”

“She was mad at you.”