John Locke - Saving Rachel
She’d never met anyone as understanding as me, as wealthy, or as good-looking. (I know, I know. But these were her words, not mine.) I never spoke ill of her husband, and in the early days, when she brought his name up, I changed the subject.
This was not about sex or lust or power or control or any of those things—not completely any of those things. It was more about Rachel being the kind of woman that fits my biological imperative. Millions of years of gene programming led me to be attracted to a certain type of woman.
Actually, that’s a crock, since I’m attracted to most types of women. But women like Rachel give me reason to care.
My job precludes normal, healthy relationships. I’ve been married once (Janet) and have a wonderful daughter (Kimberly). I fell in love about five years ago, just before the coma (Kathleen), but the Agency told everyone I’d died and had a mock funeral for me. Kathleen, thinking I was dead, fell in love with the next guy who came along and got married. Most of the years before and after Kathleen were spent in the company of hookers, several of whom have become close friends.
Janet was far too bitchy, Kathleen far too sweet. Rachel’s a happy medium.
Our first time?
Well, our first time was tentative. She wanted me to make the first move. I did. Then I pulled back, and she pushed things further. Then she pulled back, and I advanced. We continued this push-me-pull-you dance until we had expended ourselves completely.
Then she looked into my eyes and said, “This can never happen again.”
“It won’t,” I said. “I promise.”
Thirty minutes later, we were all over each other, and this time, nothing was tentative. It was as if the floodgates had burst and all her pent-up passion could finally be released.
Chapter 36
That was six months ago. And we’ve grown closer ever since. I’m not kidding. I’m crazy about her.
A couple of months into the relationship, she told me she planned to divorce Sam. I strongly discouraged it, for two reasons. First, from day one, I’d told Rachel I have no interest in living with or marrying anyone ever again (Of course, she feels she’ll be able to change my mind). Second, I told her she couldn’t afford a divorce because virtually all of Sam’s income is off the books.
As for not wanting to live with or marry her, that has nothing to do with Rachel and everything to do with my job. I kill people for a living. If my enemies found out about Rachel, her life would be in constant danger. As for Sam’s income being off the books, I have an obvious conflict of interest: if the authorities dig into Sam’s activities, they might eventually find my money and seize it.
This topic consumed many hours of our conversation, and I began wondering if there might be another way to solve Rachel’s dilemma. If I could find a way to rob Sam’s clients, I could siphon off enough money to make Rachel financially independent. Then she could afford to leave Sam without making any demands on his income. I got with Victor, and he surprised me by insisting we hire a team of former FBI profilers to do a psychological evaluation on Sam in order to decide how best to deal with him.
Between Lou Kelly and me, we had reams of information on Sam, enough to get a definitive conclusion by the profilers.
Their conclusion was you don’t torture a left-brain genius guy like Sam. His personality is fragile, and he could go into a meltdown and become completely unresponsive.
“This kind of guy is very unique,” the head profiler told me. “He’s one in a hundred million, which is how he was able to develop this type of computer program in the first place.” “So how do we get him to reveal sensitive information?” I said. “The best way is to short-circuit his brain.” “Come again?”
“Sam Case is an extreme detail guy. You’re going to want to throw as much at him as you can. Hit him with circular references and things that make no sense. Put him on sensory overload. Confuse him. Put him in unfamiliar situations.”
“Give him a complete mind fuck?” I said.
“Precisely.”
I lined up Callie Carpenter to be his girlfriend, which took a hell of a lot longer than we intended. Sam being a workaholic, we couldn’t find a plausible way for them to “meet.” In the meantime, Callie established her identity as Karen Vogel. With our Agency connections, she managed to get a Kentucky driver’s license, Social Security card, and several credit cards. Then she got a job and a checking account and bought a condo in Karen’s name. She made the connection with Mary’s friend and co-worker, Chuck.
While all this was going on, Victor and I assembled the team and equipment we would need to put Sam’s brain into overload.
Finally, five weeks ago, we managed to get Karen and Sam in the same place at the same time in a plausible scenario that allowed Callie to manipulate him into making his move. The rest, as they say, is history.
Then we had Karen break the news about Rachel’s affair to Chuck, who told Mary. At first, Mary didn’t believe it, so she followed us to a hotel one night. Mary, protective big sister that she was, gave Rachel an ultimatum: confess the affair to Sam, or she would. Mary and Rachel argued back and forth for several days, and as the anger escalated, the fights became heated. And one day, without any input from me, my friend Salvatore Bonadello, crime boss of the Midwestern United States, got a call from a woman named Rachel Case of Louisville, Kentucky.
Rachel wanted to know how to go about hiring a hit man to kill her sister.
You could have knocked me over with a feather! My intention had been to have Mary meet Sam and tell him about the affair. Then we were going to orchestrate an entire drama around his trying to catch Rachel in the act. We had all sorts of twists and turns to confuse him.
But Rachel had taken things into her own hands.
I told Sal to let it slide. The original plan would work, and no one had to die. Sal wanted the forty grand he was going to charge Rachel for the hit. He wanted me to take the contract and split the fee. I told him if he insisted on killing Rachel’s sister, he’d have to cut the fee to twenty grand and we’d give the entire sum to Jimmy Squint, because I didn’t want Rachel to pay any more than she had to. Sal is not the sort to leave money on the table, but after I reminded him that his take of the heist would be five hundred million dollars, he reluctantly agreed to the twenty g’s.
Karen told Chuck that Rachel’s boyfriend was unstable and that he might harm Mary if she met with Sam. She thought Sam and Mary should meet in a public place, like Seneca Park, and Sam shouldn’t know what the meeting was about beforehand. Karen said she’d talk to Sam and make sure he showed.
At the last minute, Chuck talked Mary into letting him come to the meeting at the park. He had an authentic police uniform he’d bought for a costume party and felt that wearing the uniform might discourage Rachel’s unstable boyfriend from making a scene—which is why the twenty grand suddenly had to cover two killings instead of one. Jimmy Squint didn’t mind. He was in the middle of a financial drought and thankful to get whatever I could give him.
We planned for Sam’s meeting with Mary to coincide with Sam’s first sexual encounter with Karen. This was simple to arrange, since Karen controlled both the meeting with Mary and the hotel room with Sam.
Rachel and I explored all realms of her sexuality, and I found a use for the photograph I had taken of her rape fantasy several months ago, where she pretended to be tied down in her bra and panties. I drew the “K” and “V” on her cups with a marker to identify her as my property, and later on, when making the decision to rob Sam’s clients, I gave Callie the name Karen Vogel in order to match the initials.
As we got close to the big event, Sal Bonadello learned his part, and we hired some grifters to play the parts of Aiden Fry and the other camera crew members. We rehearsed in the underground parking lot Victor had purchased.
Speaking of Victor, he always goes all out with these productions. I assured him that all we had to do was build a few soundproof cells in his parking garage. But he had this wild idea of building soundproofed Lucite containers, equipping them with vacuum pumps, and fitting them to flatbed trucks! He barely got the trucks finished in time, but I never doubted he would, having worked with him successfully several times in the past.
Then, with everyone and everything in place, we decided to give Sam a proper mind fuck.
The wild card was Rachel. We had no idea how she would react to being kidnapped. I was concerned about her, so Lou (the voice Sam and Rachel would hear in their cells) kept me constantly informed as to her physical and emotional state.
I had a bit of trepidation allowing Callie and me to be placed into the Lucite containers, so I had prearranged a number of safeguards with Lou Kelly, Callie, Sal Bonadello, and even Victor. You can never be certain about the people working a heist with you, but I figured with so much money to share, we’d be able to trust each other. Plus, we had a history of working together, and that counts for a lot.
From the moment Rachel and Sam were locked in Lucite, I was able to hear everything they said and heard. The only thing I didn’t get to see was Callie getting naked for Sam. I’ve known Callie a third of her life, and I can tell you, I’m jealous that Sam managed to bang my ultimate fantasy girl, something I’ve never managed to do.
Not that it matters, and it’s not even relative to the discussion, but Callie’s a lesbian. She has a wonderful live-in relationship with a female trapeze artist in Las Vegas, so I know it wasn’t easy for her to sneak away for three months and seduce Sam Case.
Actually, it wasn’t that hard. Callie’s hopelessly in love with her girlfriend, Eva LeSage, but I expect she’d seduce a rabid grizzly bear for a billion dollars.
I know I would.
Which brings us to the present, where Sam, Rachel, and I are in our containers, and Rachel has just chosen me to live and sentenced her husband to die. I’m dressed in a business suit, pretending to be Kevin Vaughn, and Sam is pretending he doesn’t know I’m Donovan Creed.
Chapter 37
I admit Rachel’s attitude toward Sam is giving me pause.
I’ve always said the way to really know a woman is to lock her in a cage and poke her with a stick. This isn’t quite the same, but it’s close. And what I’ve learned about my girlfriend, Rachel, during this short period of captivity is revealing and more than a little disturbing. Starting with the obvious, she doesn’t appear to be an overly compassionate person. Her colorful vocabulary could benefit from a makeover. The fact that she was entirely convincing when begging Sam to choose her over Karen tells me she’s not just a capable liar but probably a pathological one as well. Her ability to be completely sensual and loving one moment and capable of murdering her sister or husband the next suggests an undiagnosed schizophrenic personality disorder.
Then again, I kill people for a living, so which of us is perfect?
I’m crazy about Rachel. And while crazy might be the operative word, I’m already looking forward to seeing how we click when it’s just the two of us living in her attic.
Okay, so let me catch you up in real time: Lou Kelly (the voice) has just said, “Sorry for the delay. We’re good to go. Make your peace, Sam. I’ll give you ten seconds.” Sam said, “You get nine billion dollars, and I get ten seconds, huh?” Lou: “Doesn’t hardly seem fair, does it?” Sam: “When does the countdown begin?” Lou: “Now … unless anyone has a final comment … No? In that case—” I clear my throat and say, “Actually, if I may, I’d like to ask Sam a quick question.”
Sam looks up at me. So does Rachel. She looks worried and says, “Kevin, we’re so close. Please, hon, let’s just end this and go home.” Sam says to me, “What’s your question?” I answer, “Did you type my code last?” Rachel says, “What?” “It was all happening so fast,” Sam says, “but yes. I entered your code last, like we discussed.” “Good man.”
Rachel begins screaming incoherently, something about, “You know him? What the hell is going on here? What the fuck does this mean? Answer me! Answer me, you son of a bitch—” That sort of thing.
I turn to her, knowing what to look for. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about dating relationships, it’s that being able to predict your partner’s moods is of paramount importance. In Rachel’s case (pardon the play on words), her face is her barometer, so I am reassured to see her neck, ears, and face gaining color quickly. I’ve noticed her face only turns crimson when she’s furious or craving sex, and I’ve been teaching myself to know which is which. It’s these little things you learn about the people you’re dating that mean so much down the road. I let her yammer on awhile before focusing on her husband. “Sam,” I say, “There’s no way to dance around the issue. I’m in love with your wife.” Rachel immediately stops screaming. “What? Wait—did you just say you’re in love with me?” I smile. “I am. Hopelessly.”
She settles down and places her hand on the glass in a loving manner, while her face remains bright red. See what I mean? From furious to sensual in nothing flat—what a woman! Sam says, “I find that impossible to believe.” Rachel says, “Shut up, Sam. Shut up and die.” Like I said, Rachel ain’t perfect. Sam says, “Rachel, you might want to ask Kevin what his real name is.” I say, “Sam, with all due respect, that’s a matter between Rachel and me.” “Fuck you both,” he says. “Sam, I was hoping we could all leave here as friends.” He looks at me as if I come from another dimension, a place where we all look normal, but nothing we say makes sense. “Friends? You want to be friends?” I nod.
“Let’s see if I’ve got this right,” he says. “I agreed to protect your blood money. In return, you broke into my house, hacked into my computer, monitored my every move, fucked my wife, set me up with a hooker, drugged and kidnapped me twice, murdered my wife’s sister and at least one innocent man, kept me and my wife imprisoned for two days, nearly killing Rachel in the process, forced me to sentence Karen to die, stole more than nine billion dollars from my clients—which means even if you let me go, my life expectancy is now what, three days? Wait, don’t answer. I’m not finished. You put me out of business, put me through mental and physical anguish, forced me to learn my wife has been having a six-month affair with my own client, made me endure the humiliation of having my own wife sentence me to die, and now you tell me you’re in love with my wife and plan to take her away from me, but you want us to be friends?” “Yes, that’s it,” I say. “Except for the part about physical anguish. I think that’s a bit hyperbolic.” “You do,” he says. I nod. “But other than that?” “I’d say you have a good grasp on it. Except for one thing.” “What’s that?” “I’m going to give you a quarter billion of the take.” “Big deal. I’ll be dead within days.” “I’ll help you get a new face, new identity, and a new life.” “With Karen Vogel?” “Get real, son.” “Okay,” he says. “I’ll take it.” “Lou,” I say, “open the containers and let’s wrap things up. Rachel and I have a lot to talk about.” Nothing happens. “Lou?”
