John Locke - A Girl Like You

“Question three: look at me.” He does. “Look directly into my eyes, and do not look away when I ask you this next question. Do you understand?”

He looks into my eyes and holds my stare. Then says, “Yes, sir.”

27.

“Question number three is, what’s your wife’s bra size?”

“Excuse me?”

“That was another throw away question. It’s from a book I read. Question number four: how close is this country, or any country, to developing a vaccine for the Spanish Flu?”

“It can’t be done.”

“And why is that?”

“Such a vaccine would require a human genetic footprint that doesn’t exist.”

“Why not? –And by the way, these ancillary questions aren’t part of the six.”

“Do you know much about synthetic biology?”

“Pretend I don’t.”

“There is no known human genetic code that can re-create the virus that caused the pandemic, though some scientists are working with man-made cells that get genetic instructions from a synthetic DNA.”

I hold up my hand. “Call on me.”

Quentin furrows his brow. “Excuse me?”

“When I was a kid, in class, I’d raise my hand and the teacher would call on me. I’m raising my hand, Quentin.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Call on me.”

“I-I don’t know your name.”

“That’s right, you don’t. Just like I don’t know what the shit you’re talking about.”

“Perhaps if I—”

“Let me make this simple, Quentin. Suppose there was a human who had the proper genetic code. A lady. Where would you hide her?”

“Hide her?”

“It’s a simple question.”

“Why would I hide her?”

“Because you don’t want the bad guys to get her.”

Quentin looks concerned again. “Your questions are making me uncomfortable. I’m concerned you might be unstable.”

“Question number five, rephrased: if the government found this lady, where would they hide her?”

“I don’t know anything about a lady. What lady are you talking about?”

“Rachel Case.”

“I’ve never heard the name. I honestly know nothing about her.”

“Rachel is in her late twenties. She has thick, light brown, shoulder-length hair with blond highlights. Her lips aren’t full, but they aren’t thin, either. But when she smiles…No, strike that. Not when she smiles, but after.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“After Rachel rewards you with a smile, her lips curl up at the edges, turning her mouth into a little bow.”

“A bow?”

“It’s adorable.”

“I’m sure it is, but—”

“Her eyes.”

“Her…eyes?”

“Gold, like tupelo honey. And her breath?

“Yes?”

“I don’t care what she’s eaten, or how long it’s been since she brushed her teeth. Her breath is always fresh. Like the negative ions in the air after a spring storm washes over a field of honeysuckle. Have you ever known a woman to have that type of breath?”

“No.”

“Damn right you haven’t. And her perfect breath dances behind teeth as pure and white as the 3,617 words Melville used in Chapter 42 to describe how white the whale was. And Rachel’s body?”

“Yes?”

“Whippet thin. Willowy. With small, splendid breasts and nipples hard as cherry stones. A belly so firm and flat you could use it to crack walnuts.”

“Walnuts?”

“And legs that go on forever. Impossibly well-proportioned legs. Do you understand what I’m trying to say, Quentin?”

“She has nice legs.”

“No. Super models have nice legs. Rachel’s alabaster thighs will send you howling through the night as you bound across the moors, seeking your very sanity. As for what beckons in the golden-tufted triangle atop those splendid thighs, well, that’s none of your business.”

“Of course not.”

“But I’ll say this much, Quentin: as a mysterious force of nature that will spin your compass, render all navigation useless, and swallow you whole, the Bermuda Triangle has nothing on Rachel’s triangle. Add to that a backside that would make even the most devoted husband in the world curse his wedding vows.”

“She sounds extraordinary.”

“Damn right, she is. And I want her back.”

Quentin’s cell phone buzzes on his desk. I pick it up and look at the caller ID.

“Who’s Ginger?”

“My wife. She’s calling from the restaurant. I’m supposed to join them for dinner.”

I set the phone back on his desk.

“Don’t answer it,” I say.

“If I don’t, she’ll worry.”

“She’ll worry more if you’re dead. And you will be, if you answer it.”

“She’ll keep calling.”

“How would you feel if someone kidnapped Ginger?”

“Sir…”

“Would you miss her?”

“Of course, but—”

“What would you do to get her back?”

“I’d do anything. But—”

I stand. “Where do you keep your tools? In the garage?”

“My tools?”

“Let’s go find them.”

“Wh-Why?”

“Because my last question might require some coaxing.”

28.

I was wrong.

My last question required practically no coaxing.

I’m glad, because the bottom line is Quentin’s a standup guy. A caring husband, good father, the sort of man you want looking after your nation when flu season strikes.

“You’re not going to leave me like this, are you?” he says, as I open the door that leads from his shop to the house proper.

“Ginger will let you out,” I say, as I start to leave. “By the way, where’s your checkbook?”

“I-I thought you weren’t going to rob me.”

“I need a deposit slip.”

“Why?”

“So I can wire you some money.”

“I’d rather you just left us alone.”

I look at Quentin, bent over his workbench, hands tied behind his back, his head stuck in the vice, and smile. “Don’t be a martyr. We all need help. By the way, I’m counting on you not to tell anyone about our visit. Not Ginger, and especially not Maggie Sullivan.”

“How will I explain having my head stuck in a vice?”

“To Ginger and Shelby?”

“Yes.”

“Tell them it was an accident.”

“An accident?”

“I’m really concerned that you’re going to report this to someone. Normally I’d kill you, and that would be that. But you seem a decent man. I’m hoping I can trust you to keep your word.”

“You can.”

“But now you’re making me wonder. If I leave you here, Ginger might demand to know how you got into this position. If I cut you loose, I’ll have to trust you not to call the police, or warn Maggie Sullivan’s office that I’m coming to call.”

“I give you my word.”

I sigh, walk back to Quentin, and untie his hands. “Don’t make me sorry I’m doing this,” I say. “Because the smart move is to kill you.”

“I won’t say a word.”

“I’m going to trust you. Against my better judgment. Knowing that if you tell anyone, I’m going to do something I really don’t want to do.”

“What’s that?”

I take out my cell phone, punch in some numbers, and set it on speaker.

“Yes?”

“Callie, I’ve got you on speaker phone.”

“Okay.”

“I’m with Quentin Palmer. He gave me a name. Maggie Sullivan.”

“World Health Organization Maggie Sullivan?”

“The same.”

“He’s going to call her in a few minutes and get me an appointment to see her tomorrow.”

“I’m what?” Quentin says. “I barely know her!”

Callie says, “Will Maggie know where Rachel is?”

“Probably not. But she’ll know the name of the scientist who gave the green light on Rachel’s blood work.”

To Quentin, I say, “I’ll need you to call Maggie before I leave.”

“It’s Sunday.”

“You’d prefer I spend the night with your family?”

“No!”

“Then you’ll have to make the call in a few minutes.”

“I don’t have her home phone number.”

“Try her cell.”

Quentin turns the palms of both hands upward in frustration. “She and I don’t have that type of relationship?”

“What type is that?”

“The type where I can call her on a Sunday evening and ask her to see someone the next day.”

“But that’s the very reason she’ll take it seriously, yes?”

“I’m not sure what I should say.”

“We can rehearse a bit, before you call.”

“You’re not planning to put her head in a vice, are you?”

“Not unless I have to.”

Callie is laughing on her end of the phone. “You put his head in a vice? That’s hilarious!”

“Sounds funnier than it is,” I say. “Callie, I’ve decided not to kill Quentin.”

She pauses before saying, “Loose ends, Donovan.”

“I know. But he’s a good man. God knows, the country needs some.”

“Still...”

“I know. Listen, do me a favor. Tell Quentin something to convince him we’re serious.”

“Shooting him would be more convincing.”

“Humor me,” I say.

“Quentin,” Callie says. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“36-C.”

“Excuse me?”

“Ginger’s bra size. Trust me, we know everything about her. And we know more about Shelby than you do.”

“Can you give him a for instance?” I say.

“Shelby’s dating Brad Ogilve, senior at Mid-Central High, but she’s crushing on Charlie Garber, a freshman at U.V.A. She started taking birth control pills two months ago and has three left, if she’s taken them according to the prescription. She bought two online tickets to the advance showing of Follow the Stone, which premiers next Friday.”

“H-How do you people know these things?” Quentin says.

“It’s our job to know them, Mr. Palmer,” Callie says, adding, “And know this: if you say one word about this to anyone, your life will come to an end. The warning you give tonight or tomorrow might destroy the man standing beside you, but you don’t even know who I am. And I’ll come for you. And when I do, I’m going to cut Ginger and Shelby into cubes of chum, right before your eyes.”

“Jesus,” Quentin says.

“And you know what’s worse?” Callie says.

“Wh-what?”

“I am so fucking depraved at this point, I will actually enjoy it.”

“Jesus,” I say.

29.

“Would you like to see my shillelagh, Mr. Creed?” Maggie Sullivan says.

“Well, I’ve never heard it called that before, but…should I lock the door?”

She laughs heartily. “You’re a bad boy!”

“So you’re not actually going to…”

“Of course not, you nut. A shillelagh is an Irish walking stick.”

It’s Monday afternoon. A week has passed since Rachel’s kidnapping. I’m in Maggie Sullivan’s office in Denver. After not killing Quentin Palmer, I had him contact Maggie to set up an appointment to discuss a possible breakthrough for a flu vaccine, though he was careful not to mention the Spanish Flu. Maggie and I have been having fun talking about her Irish heritage. She’s fifteen years older than me, and mildly flirtatious. She stands and crosses the room and removes a stick from a display on the far wall. She hefts it a couple of times before handing it to me.

“Mighty fine looking shillelagh,” I say.

She laughs again. “You have no idea what you’re looking at, do you?”

“It sort of resembles an Irish walking stick,” I say, handing it back. “What type of wood is that?”

“Like most traditional shillelaghs, this one is made from blackthorn. You smear the wood with butter and put it up the chimney to cure.”

“Are we speaking in code here?”

She laughs again.

I say, “It’s heavy on top.”

“Yes. This is what we call a loaded shillelagh. The top end has been hollowed and filled with molten lead, which turns it into a striking stick.”

“Have you ever hit anyone with it?”

“No, but my grandmother claims to have used it to beat off the men in her neighborhood.”

“My grandmother used her hand,” I say.

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing. It’s a nice walking stick.”

“Yes, well it should be. It’s an antique, after all. A classic, as it were.”

“If I’m not mistaken, a jeweled shillelagh is given each year to the winner of the college football game between Notre Dame and USC.”

She gives me a slow nod, then smiles. “You’ve been having sport with me all this time.”

I return her smile. “Maybe. A little.”

She says, “How can I help you, Mr. Creed?”

“By giving me a name.”

“And which name would that be?”

“The head scientist. The one who has the final word.”

She frowns. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re asking. Mr. Palmer said your visit had something to do with next year’s flu vaccine.”

“Please forgive my lack of scientific credential as I try to formulate my question,” I say, humbly.

“Of course.”

“Suppose I had access to a human gene that was one in a billion.”

Maggie shrugs.

I continue. “And let’s say that the gene I’ve found is the missing link between the swine and avian flu strains that caused the Spanish Flu pandemic of 1918.”

“That would be quite a find,” Maggie says.

“But assume it were true.”

“Done, sir.”

“If I had access to such a gene, who is the scientist that would validate my claim?”

“Roger Asprin.”

“Asprin?”

“Yes, of course.”

“That’s quite a name,” I say.

“Roger is the do-all and be-all of virologists, what we call a true ‘flu man,’ meaning a scientist who has devoted his entire life to influenza research.”

“If a determination needs to be made, he’s the guy?”

“He’s the one.”

“He knows his stuff?”

“In addition to being the world’s most highly-respected virologist, Roger Asprin is a molecular pathologist with extensive experience in recovering genetic information from preserved human tissue.”

I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I call Sam and Lou and have her repeat Roger’s credentials to them.

“Roger sounds like the man,” Sam says.

“Where would I find Mr. Asprin?” I say.

Maggie laughs. “Roger’s a man of the world. He could be anywhere. It would be easier to gain audience with the President.”

I frown.

“However,” she adds, “this week I happen to know he’s in Chicago, heading a symposium on viral pathogens.”

“Where’s his home?”

“Los Angeles,” I think.

I turn off the speaker phone and wait until Lou says, “Got it. Newport Beach.”

When I terminate the call, Maggie says, “Tell me what you’ve found, Mr. Creed.”