John Locke - Lethal Experiment

I was only able to fit my head and neck into the opening, but that was enough to see that Alison’s room was small, with a bed, a TV, a toilet, sink, and a mini fridge that probably held water and food. But Alison was enjoying none of these comforts. She was completely naked, chained to the wall. Her mouth was covered in tape that encircled her head. Above and below the tape I could see the top and bottom of a red bondage ball Quinn had forced into her mouth.

I had no idea how long she’d been chained to the wall like that, but she was at least thirty pounds thinner than the last time I’d seen her. She was also clearly in agony, and there was a large puddle of urine beneath her. Callie turned to me and said, “What now?”

I backed out of the opening and retrieved a pair of heavy duty bolt cutters from my equipment bag. I passed the cutters through the hole to Callie. It took her a minute to cut the cuffs, then she said, “Donovan, give us a little privacy.”

I backed out of the opening again and waited while Alison used the toilet. I heard Callie say, “This will hurt less if I go slowly.” Then I heard the tape coming off Alison’s mouth. She gagged and coughed and sputtered. Callie kept saying, “It’s okay, Quinn’s dead, everything’s going to be all right.”

Callie got her cleaned up and dressed and helped her through the wall. When Alison emerged she gave me a cold look. Her eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared.

“Your fault,” she said.

“My fault?”

“That’s right,” she said, launching the words aggressively. “It’s your fault. All of this.”

Callie said, “Donovan’s the only one in the world who figured out what happened to you. You’re safe because of him.”

Alison pushed me. “That’s the slowest rescue of all time,” she said. “Where’ve you been? You promised me a job.”

I said, “You ready to start tonight or you want to yell at me some more?”

Chapter 57

We got the hugely ungrateful Alison out of there, checked her into the hotel room between mine and Callie’s, got her fed, and got her story.

After I was declared dead, Alison had indeed entered into a romantic relationship with Quinn, hoping to cash in on the work I’d promised her. Like Quinn said, when Alison realized it wasn’t going to happen, she took off . Unfortunately for her, Quinn was the best guard in the business, and she didn’t get far. When he caught her they had some words and he kidnapped her and brought her to the warehouse.

When he was home, which was most of the time—Quinn doted on her. But whenever he left, he chained her to the wall, his way of making sure she was glad to see him when he came home. If he planned to be gone more than a few hours, he’d use a longer chain, one that allowed her access to all her comforts. Quinn had been gone about three hours and was on his way home when I caught up to him on Walnut Street.

So again, according to Alison, my fault.

“Did he beat you?” Callie asked.

“Occasionally,” Alison said.

“Did he force himself on you?”

“At least twice a day.”

“You ever put up a fight?”

“The times I did, that’s when he’d beat me.”

Here in the well-lit room she looked white as a ghost. I said, “Before tonight, how long had it been since you’ve been outdoors?”

“More than three years,” she said. “And the only reason I know that is that I had a TV.”

Callie gave her a sleeping pill and sat up with her until she fell asleep. Then she joined me in my room and we broke the seal on a bottle of mini bar wine and drank it while working out Alison’s training schedule.

I said, “I’ll give Lou the second and third weeks, you get the next three, and I’ll take the next two. Then she can shadow you on a couple of jobs. After that we’ll test her out on something easy, see how she handles it.”

“What’s the going rate for nurse maids these days?”

“Twenty grand a week, plus whatever you make on jobs.”

“Works for me,” Callie said. “Who gets her the first week?”

“Dr. Crouch. Because if Nadine doesn’t think she’s ready, we pass on the project, and try to help Alison get her old life back.”

I punched a key on my cell phone and winked at Callie. “Listen to this,” I said, pressing the speaker button.

Dr. Nadine Crouch answered by shouting, “Unacceptable!”

I said, “I’ve got a patient for you.”

“What’s the matter with you? Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“This is a good gig,” I said. “It will appeal to your avarice.”

“I’m trying to sleep, Donovan. Don’t ever call me in the middle of the night like this again. Unacceptable!”

“How’s twenty-five hundred a day sound?”

“I’m sure it will sound a lot better when I wake up in a couple of hours. Call me then,” she said, and hung up.

“She’s a bitter old bitch,” Callie said. “Don’t you think?”

“Yeah, she doesn’t care much for people, though she seems to like me.”

Callie shook her head. “You ever hear yourself talk?”

Chapter 58

Myron Goldstein was already parked at the rest stop at mile marker 177 just outside his home town of Cincinnati when I pulled up. I got out of my car and made a wide circle around his, checking for possible snipers. As I approached his passenger door, he unlocked it, and I got in.

“Sal says you want to die,” I said.

“You’re Creed?”

“I am.”

“I thought you’d be younger.”

“I thought you’d be older.”

Myron Goldstein nodded. He was a gaunt, sad-faced man with thick lips and sagging jowls. A thatch of wiry black hair protruded from each of his nostrils. He kept a wet, mucus-soaked handkerchief in one of his shaky hands, and used it to dab at the slimy fluid that steadily dripped from his nose. He wore thick horn-rimmed glasses.

I said, “The way this works, you tell me what’s on your mind and I’ll tell you what I think.”

“Have you always been a healthy man, Mr. Creed?”

“Can we just get to it?”

He smiled a thick-lipped smile. “Yes, of course,” he said. He paused for a moment to dab at his nose, and then said, “Are you familiar with ALS?”

“Lou Gehrig’s Disease?”

“Yes, that’s the one. ALS is a progressive, fatal, neurodegenerative disease that slowly but steadily robs your body of voluntary movement. The disorder causes your muscles to weaken, day by day, until they are unable to function. You can see it already in my hands. That’s not Parkinson’s, it’s called fasciculation, and it signals the beginning of the end.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” I said, and meant it. Looking at Myron Goldstein made me ashamed of myself. For the past seven weeks I’d been hosting a pity party over losing Kathleen and Addie, while this poor son of a bitch has been dying by inches. Of course it hurt to lose the people I’d wanted to grow old with—but Myron Goldstein wasn’t going to grow old at all. Maybe Kathleen and her fiancé would someday break up, allowing me to slip back into her life. Or maybe not. But at least I had a future to dream about, which was a hell of a lot more than Myron Goldstein was going to get.

“So what you’re saying, you want me to kill you, put you out of your misery.”

“Yes.”

“Why not just commit suicide? You’d save fifty grand.”

“I have insurance policies worth much more. But they don’t pay for suicide.”

“I have to say no,” I said.

“Why not?”

“This money, fifty thousand dollars. It’s money your wife and kids should have.”

He tapped the envelope on the console between us. Beyond this, I have no other money,” he said. “The insurance will pay off most of my debts and allow my wife to keep the house, the car, and have a comfortable life. It may not be enough to put my kids through Dartmouth, but there are state schools available if they can’t qualify for scholarships. More than anything, if I go now it will spare my family having to care for me the last year of my life. I don’t want them to go into debt, have to put their dreams on hold, watching me die a slow and horrible death.”