John Locke - Saving Rachel

The voice says, “Not true. We’ve always had the second sequence. They’re embedded in your computer.”

“That’s not possible,” I say.

“Think about it,” the voice says. “During the past two years, every one of your clients has accessed some of their money at least once. You’re an honest man, Sam. You set up your program in such a way that you couldn’t see your clients’ codes. But we’re not so honest. We hacked into your system and found them—I won’t try to explain how. But we had a problem: the accounts were all numbered. We were kidding about the codes. We never needed them; we had them all along. What we needed were the legal names on the accounts. Without those, we couldn’t access the funds.” My head is swimming, but my captor’s voice sounds confident. “So that’s it,” I say. “It is.” “What happens now?”

“We’ll kill you quickly. With all the twists and turns that have been going on, Rachel and Kevin are going to want to make sure you’re dead. After that, we’ll reunite the happy couple and bring down the curtain on this play.” “Karen’s getting a big cut?” I ask, wondering why that thought popped into my head. Rachel muttered, “I knew she was a whore. But I suppose she earned it, having to fuck you.” “Are you in on it too, Rachel?” I say. “Are you getting a cut?”

The voice says, “Rachel is not a party to this drama. She only gets to live, along with whatever she inherits from your estate.”

“You sound awfully smug,” I say. “If you can’t access the money at the last minute, you’re going to wish you’d kept me alive.”

“Sam,” the voice says, “from the moment you gave us the names, my associates have been working furiously. It’s over; we’ve already got the money.”

“Maybe not all of it,” I say. “What’s the final take?”

The voice pauses, as if checking. After a moment, it says, “Nine billion four hundred million and change. That sound about right?”

Shit.

“Good for you,” I say. “And fuck you all. Go ahead, throw the switch. I’ll see you in hell.”

“Until then, Sam,” the voice says. There’s a slight pause as my captors make the electronic adjustments to start the vacuum pump. When it’s ready, the voice says, “Sorry for the delay. We’re good to go. Make your peace, Sam, I’ll give you ten seconds.” “You get nine billion dollars, and I get ten seconds, huh?” “Doesn’t hardly seem fair, does it?” “When does the countdown begin?” “Now … unless anyone has a final comment … No? In that case—” Kevin Vaughn clears his throat. “Actually, if I may, I’d like to ask Sam a quick question.”

I look up at him and see Rachel doing the same. She looks as worried as I feel. She says in a pleading voice, “Kevin, we’re so close. Please, hon, let’s just end this and go home.”

“What’s your question?” I say.

PART TWO:DONOVAN CREED

Chapter 31

Two days earlier, 9:30 am …

I look at my watch and think about Sam Case who, at this very moment, is in a hotel room having sex with Karen Vogel. This, the best morning of his life, is about to turn into his worst nightmare. I’m in the Rock Creek Diner, by Seneca Park.

The bold writing atop the menu tells me all I need to know about the impending dining experience:

“ Since 1947, we’ve served food as good, pure, wholesome, and consistent as a mother’s love.”Jimmy Squint sits across the table, looking at me like my boss must be the craziest son of a bitch on Earth. “Creed, your boss must be the craziest son of a bitch on Earth,” he says, studying my face, waiting to hear the punch line. There is none. “So that’s the plan,” Jimmy says. “What am I missing?” “I could tell it again,” I say, “but it never gets any saner.”

Our waitress, a beautiful little Southern girl named Macie, sets a platter of country ham biscuits between us and lingers long enough to show me the kind of smile she’d use someday to keep her man home at night. Of course, Jimmy Squint ruins the moment by saying, “Biscuits look a bit hard.”

Jimmy might be right about my boss being crazy, but he is dead wrong about the biscuits. Nor does his remark sit well with the customers who overheard it. For his part, Jimmy doesn’t seem aware of the grumbling and general unease building up around us. “You’re serious?” he says, back on the subject of the plan. I nod. “Guy’s got that much money?” “He does.” “But it ain’t enough.” “It ain’t,” I say.

Jimmy Squint gives me his trademark squinty look, wondering if I might be mocking him. Unable to tell for certain, he moves the conversation along. “Seems like a hell of a lot of trouble to go through.” I shrug. Jimmy says, “This guy’s got information you want, why not beat it outta him?” I don’t say anything.

Jimmy says, “Or round up his loved ones, kill ’em one at a time. Make him watch … I don’t care who he is, he’ll talk.” “You’d think so,” I say, just to have something to say. “But your guy wants to walk the whole neighborhood just to kick the dog.” Jimmy Squint has an odd way of putting things, but I know what he means. “No matter how you phrase it,” I say, “it still comes out the same.”

Our booth in the Rock Creek Diner has a large window that overlooks Seneca Park. From where we sit, we can see about eighty men and women and maybe a dozen kids, but curiously, no dogs. Jimmy Squint takes a bite of a country ham biscuit. “Where’s this whole shooting thing going down?” he whispers. I nod at the window, indicating the park but get distracted by Jimmy’s frown. “It’s not that the biscuits are hard,” I say. “You’re eating them the wrong way.” He gives me a look of bewilderment. “How many friggin’ ways can a biscuit be eaten?” “There’s a protocol unique to this particular dining experience that should be observed,” I say. “A protocol,” he says. “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?” “Your biscuit wants to be dipped in the gravy,” I say. He scrunches his face. “That’s like, pure fat.” “You’re in Kentucky, James. That’s authentic redeye. Not fat.” He appraises the tiny porcelain vessel on his plate and frowns. “Why’s it so dark?” “It’s made with coffee.”

“ Coffee?” he says, getting all worked up about it. “Who the hell puts coffee in their gravy?”

I hear a couple of chairs scrape the floor as a large man in coveralls and his unshaven wife jump to their feet a few tables behind Jimmy and set their bodies in some manner of backwoods fighting stance. The other diners who heard Jimmy’s latest outburst are glaring at him, red-faced.

“The fuck you starin’ at?” Jimmy Squint says to basically the entire diner.

At first, Jimmy’s hands are at his sides, under the table. There is no discernable movement, but suddenly both his hands are on top of the table, the fingers of his right hand resting an inch away from a serrated steak knife. This happens instantly: no hands on the table and then two hands on the table, no time passing between the two events.

The standing man and woman spit into their palms and start rubbing their hands together. The man is about six-four and two-eighty, strong in that farmhand sort of way. The wife is shorter, but tougher, I think, and she has the shoulders. “If it comes down to it, I’ll take the farmer,” I say. “I think they’re both farmers,” Jimmy says. He had me there. “You take the woman,” I say. “I still ain’t sure which one you mean.” “One on the right.”

The couple advances slowly toward our table while rolling up the sleeves of their long underwear. Jimmy hears something and spins his head toward me. “The fuck?”