John Locke - Wish List
I needed to establish contact. Unless I broke into his home, I wouldn’t know if anyone was holding a gun on him and Lissie. And if someone did happen to be inside, guarding them, I could get killed trying to break in. Therefore, a phone call seemed in order.
Buddy had told me his phone was bugged, but I didn’t intend to say anything that should raise any eyebrows. But when I called, Lissie answered frantically.
“Buddy?”
I disguised my voice. “Actually, I’m calling for Buddy. Is he there?”
She paused a few seconds, trying to place my voice. It probably seemed familiar to her. My friend and former associate, Callie Carpenter, claims my fake voice is terrible. She swears I sound like Sponge Bob Square Pants.
Lissie said, “Mr. Jefferson?”
I said, “No…”
“Perkins?”
“No, ma’am. I’m sorry. Is Buddy there?”
“Who is this?”
I hung up. Although nothing concrete had been said between us, I’d learned a few things: Buddy wasn’t home. Lissie had been expecting his call. And she thought he was with a Mr. Jefferson, or Perkins, the limo driver Buddy had referred to as being dangerous.
I believed there were no gangsters in the house with Lissie because I, myself, have held people hostage in their homes, and when the phone rang, I always reminded them what to say and how to say it before answering. Since Lissie had answered my call on the first ring, I doubted there was any dangerous physical presence in her home at that time.
But I knew that would change quickly, because Rudy’s people were not only monitoring the interior of the house with cameras, they were also monitoring Buddy’s phone. They would immediately send a car to make a surveillance sweep of the neighborhood after hearing my call. I mean, who phones someone at the crack of dawn using a disguised voice, unless they’re up to something? I didn’t want to be out on the street when they arrived, but if I loitered too long near the house waiting to ambush them, some early rising neighbor might see me and call the cops.
I quickly broke into the side door of Buddy’s garage, entered it, and looked around for hidden cameras. Within a minute I found three, along with two bundles of cash. Did I mention Buddy was a complete sap? I left the money where I found it, and kept searching the garage until I saw a can of black spray paint, which I squirted onto the pinhole cameras that had filmed my every move.
If I knew where the money was, the Wish List people certainly knew. So why would they let Buddy keep it? Was it possible they intended to abide by their agreement? If so, Buddy might be wrong about Lissie’s life being in danger.
Unless he refused to repay one of his wishes.
I had originally intended to break into Buddy’s house, render Lissie unconscious, and get her to safety. I mean, it would have been nice if I could have knocked on her door and said, “Lissie, I’m a former CIA assassin. Buddy hired me to protect you. Let’s go!” Or maybe call her and tell her to run out the door and go somewhere safe. That would be simple, and she could probably get away before the Wish List people could get a car here. But I had no reason to think she’d listen to a total stranger. For one thing, she’d been hovering over the phone, waiting for Buddy to call. She wouldn’t just run away without hearing from him. For another, they probably had a tracking device on her car, so she wouldn’t get far. Nor was she likely to willingly climb into a car with me.
Since the cameras had caught me in the garage, I’d have to scrap my original plan. There simply wasn’t enough time to get Lissie to my car before they arrived.
And there was something else.
While searching the garage I found something that changed the playing field and made me want to leave immediately: I’d seen wires running through one of the vents. The kind of wires demolition experts attach to plastic explosives.
Chapter 8
I burst out the garage door, jumped the back fence, and ran to the far side of the subdivision, where I’d parked the limo. As I threw the car in gear, I wondered why they hadn’t detonated the garage the moment I sprayed the camera lenses. But they hadn’t, and that probably meant…well, I didn’t know what that meant. But I booked it out of there and hoped Lissie would be safe until I came up with another plan. It would be difficult, since all the action would be taking place in a self-contained neighborhood, where at least one garage was wired with explosives. Also, I knew next to nothing about who I was dealing with, how many were involved, or what their motives were.
I thought again about calling Lissie, but decided against it. I knew Rudy’s people were listening, and what if they decided it would be easier to just blow her up? If her garage was wired with explosives, who’s to say her entire house wasn’t set to blow?
And what about Buddy?
Hours ago, his last words to me were, “They’re coming. I’ve got to go.” So whoever “they” were, and I’m guessing Rudy and Perkins, maybe some others—they obviously took Buddy somewhere against his will. Since Lissie was still home, waiting for Buddy, she probably didn’t know about Wish List, or where Buddy was.
They had to be using Lissie to force Buddy’s cooperation. As in, “Do what we want, or something bad happens to Lissie.”
I called my tech expert, Lou Kelly. When he answered, I said, “Is there any way to remotely remove a listening device from someone’s land line?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” he said.
“Then I’ve got a problem,” I said. “A woman’s life is in danger, her house is being watched, and her phones are tapped. I need to save her. Any suggestions?”
“Have you called the phone company to report a possible bug?”
“What good would that do?”
“If they came to the house, maybe you could borrow one of their uniforms and join them.”
“Great idea!”
“Really?”
“No, it’s a lousy idea. But it helped me think of a great idea.”
“Tell me. No, wait. Why is it a lousy idea?”
“You know how long it takes the phone company to respond to problems? I’d be waiting all day.”
“So what’s the good idea?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
I pulled into a convenience store a couple of miles from Lissie’s neighborhood, and parked by one of the gas pumps. After making sure no one was nearby, I retrieved one of the disposable cell phones from my kit and called 911. When the operator answered I disguised my voice with a Middle Eastern accent and told her I was calling in a bomb threat. I didn’t want to give them Lissie’s address because the Wish List guys might decide to blow her up if the cops showed up at her place. But I wanted to get as many police in the neighborhood as fast as possible, in order to discourage Rudy from paying a visit. So I gave them the address of Lissie’s neighbor, the guy in the diaper who gets no visitors.
“Sir, we take bomb threat calls very seriously.”
“That is precisely why I called you.”
“You sound like a cartoon character.”
“This may be, and yet I can assure you the bomb threat is real.”
She sighed. “Your name, please?”
I could tell the call was going south, so I screamed, “Dogs! You will never stop us! Death to the infidels! Allah Akbar!”
Then I hung up.
I took my time filling the tank, and fussed with the window cleaning equipment I found next to the gas pumps. Ten minutes later, the sound of sirens filled the air as all sorts of vehicles went screaming past me. I don’t care how many people Wish List has. Louisville Swat, LPD, the local media and bomb squad would be more than Rudy and his gang could handle all at once.
Knowing the scene was going to be pure bedlam for the next twenty-four hours, I figured I should get back to my woodland prisoners. But first I wanted to visit my former girlfriend, Rachel Case.
Chapter 9
Rachel’s live-in house guest is my former psychiatrist, Dr. Nadine Crouch. Nadine is a retired psychotherapist who was originally hired by my government handlers to help me cope with losing three years of my life to a coma (don’t ask, it’s a long story). Nadine is a gifted, no-nonsense therapist, whose abrasive disposition is counterbalanced by the ever-present twinkle in her eye. She’s mid to late sixties, slightly plump, and generally appealing in a gruff, spinster aunt sort of way. She’s strong, capable, and the most mercenary human being you’re likely to find on the planet. Sitting across the table, she was frowning, regarding me as she often did: with a sneer. But deep down, I know she’s actually quite fond of me.
“Come to survey your work, Donovan?”
“My work?”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Don’t repeat my words,” she snapped. “I’m the shrink, not you.”
I nodded. “You think I had something to do with Rachel’s condition?”
“You think you didn’t?”
“No. But I’m open to hearing your theory.”
“Theory? That’s rich. Fact: when you met her, Rachel had a husband, a house and a responsible job. Now she’s a widow, homeless, and thinks she’s Desmond Tutu.”
“Desmond Tutu.”
“That’s what I said.”
I shook my head. “First of all, Rachel’s husband, Sam, was cheating on her. Second, she’s not homeless. She owns this entire building, and could buy three more just like it. And third, she wouldn’t know Desmond Tutu if he walked in wearing one. You’re exaggerating again, Nadine.”
“Maybe so. But you can’t deny your part in all this.”
“My part is I saved Rachel.”
“From?”
I started to speak, but caught myself. This wasn’t just me and Nadine sitting around, having a discussion about Rachel. She was probing me, pushing for a reaction. She was on the clock and I was being psychoanalyzed.
“Why don’t you tell me how you see it?” I said.
She lifted an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t want to say anything that might cost me my job.”
“I’ve never known you to hold back an opinion.”
She sighed. “I’m getting older, Donovan.”
“You’ll outlive us all.”
“You, certainly. But I need to think of my future. Like my age, the cost of living continues to advance. I hate to think what might happen if I’m forced out onto the street at my age.”
I laughed. “Nadine, you’re a scary old miser. You’re hoarding more than ten million dollars I personally know about, though I’m certain it’s at least twice that, since I’ve never known you to pull so much as a penny from your purse. But please, speak freely. Your job is safe as long as Rachel wants you here.”
“Well, that’s comforting. Rachel’s a dear girl, and despite my meager wages, it’s clear she needs me. Though I do worry about the two of you running off to start another crime spree.”
“Oh, come on, Nadine. Rachel and I are great together.”
“Oh, posh.”
“Posh? Care to elaborate?”
“I dare not. Your fragmented identity poses an ever-present threat to my safety. I enjoy living these days, and I’d like to keep doing it awhile longer.”
“You think I have it in me to kill you for expressing an opinion?”
“I do.”
“Nadine, I’m shocked.”
“You probably killed someone on the drive over here.”
“Let’s get back on subject,” I said.
Nadine stood and walked to the small refrigerator on the other side of her office.
“Care for a bottled water?” she said.
“No thanks, I’m good.”
She pulled out a single plastic bottle of water and handed it to me. It took me a moment to realize why.
“Arthritis acting up?”
Nadine shrugged. “We all have our weakness.”
I twisted the cap open and handed the bottle back to her. “What’s my weakness?”
“Simple. Rachel.”
I thought about that a moment before saying, “How do you drink when I’m not here? Does Rachel open your bottles?”
She returned to her seat and took a sip. “I’ve got a special gripping thing I use.”
We were quiet a moment.
“You really think Rachel’s condition is my fault?”
Nadine said nothing.
“You can’t deny she makes me a better person when we’re together,” I said.
She sipped her water. “You’re old enough to be her father.”
I waited.
“Fine,” she said. “I won’t deny it.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“She brings out the best in you, even as you bring out the worst in her. But make no mistake, Donovan, you’re a bad influence. The two of you were together for what, eight weeks this last time? And she killed a man?”
“She thought she was protecting me.”
“Oh, please.”
We were quiet again while Nadine sipped her water.
“How’s Rachel now?” I asked.
Nadine shook her head while extending her palms in a gesture of frustration.
“She’s like Starbucks,” she said.
“Starbucks coffee?”
“Yeah.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s all over the place.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“She’s nuts!”
I frowned. “I thought you guys were opposed to that type of reference. You can’t come up with any four-dollar words?”
“I keep my audience in mind before using technical terms.”
“Funny.”
“Look, Donovan, I know this is hard for you to believe, so let’s take a stroll down memory lane. You didn’t meet Rachel in a conventional way, did you?”
“Not really.”
“In fact, you broke into her house and began living in her attic.”
“To keep an eye on her husband.”
“You remained there for two years.”
“I’m thorough.”
“You were fixated on Rachel.”
“I wouldn’t say fixated.”
“Of course you wouldn’t. But come on, Donovan. You built an elite video command center in her attic. You placed more than forty pinhole cameras throughout her house. From the garage to the bedroom to the toilet, you studied her every move, day and night. You invaded her privacy in the most personal and banal ways imaginable. It’s perverted.”
“You’re making assumptions about my character and choice of viewing habits based on nothing more than the location of forty pinhole cameras.”
Nadine studied me a moment, as if trying to decide whether I’d been angry, indignant, or simply making a point.
“Perhaps I am,” she said.
“At any rate, watching Rachel didn’t make her crazy. She didn’t even know I was there.”
“No she didn’t. Until you told her.”
“By then we were dating. I was being honest with her. You got a problem with honesty?”
“You gathered all this information about her—everything from her medications to her monthly cycle, to her arguments with Sam—and used it to seduce her.”
“We were in love.”
“You might have been in love, but for her it was complete and utter manipulation. To this day she waves to you in the ceiling of every room she enters. How would that make you feel to think someone was watching your every move?”
