John Locke - Lethal Experiment
I shook my head. “I doubt it.”
The cab came and we got in and rode quietly to the hotel. I asked if she wanted to grab a coffee before going up to the room and she declined. As we walked through the lobby I watched her carefully to see if she made eye contact with the bellman. She did not. Again, I thought, very impressive. A natural.
We got to the elevators and I pressed the button. “So,” I said, “you want to raid my mini bar, maybe have a glass of wine?”
She smiled. “What a lovely offer,” she said. “But it’s been a long day. I think I’ll turn in early. Can I get a rain check on the nightcap?”
“Any time,” I said.
The elevator doors opened. She gave me her best little-girl-lost look and said, “Will you walk me to my room?”
I bowed. “It would be an honor,” I said.
“Cosmo Burlap—my knight in shining armor!”
She let me kiss her on the cheek before retiring. I slid the key card into the lock on my room, entered, and went straight for the mini bar.
“Already poured you a wine,” Quinn whispered, gesturing to the two glasses on the table.
“Thanks,” I whispered back. “But you know the rules.” I opened the mini bar and rummaged around for another bottle of wine.
“They only had the one bottle,” he said. Then he sighed and added, “How long have we known each other?”
“Not the point,” I said.
“Sooner or later you’re going to have to break down and trust someone.”
“Maybe so,” I said, “but not today.”
“Fine,” Quinn said. He took a sip from each glass and waited for me to select one. Quinn watched with amusement as I waited a full five minutes before picking up one of the glasses. Finally, I took a sip.
“Marriott stocks a good house wine,” I said.
Quinn picked up the remaining glass of wine and held it up in a silent toast. I did the same. We sat and sipped quietly until we heard the light tap on the connecting door to Alison’s room.
“Showtime,” Quinn said, silently mouthing the word.
He took his wine with him to the bathroom and closed the door. I waited for him to get settled, and she tapped again. I crossed the room and opened the connecting door.
“I can’t sleep,” Alison said. “I’m scared that guy might have followed us back to the hotel.”
She had freshened up and put on a red flannel nightshirt that had pink Vicky Secret hearts all over it. She showed as much leg as she could without revealing her own secrets. Normally I’d have made it easy on her and let her lure me into her bedroom so her goons could try to make good on the robbery. But I wanted to test her improv skills, since I was still considering her as a possible employee.
“You want to spend the night with me?” I said.
“No,” she said. “I want you to spend the night with me.”
“What’s the difference?” I said.
“I’ve already got all my girly stuff laid out in my bathroom,” she said. “Plus, I’ve got my iPod hooked up to some speakers. To set the mood.”
“I thought you were tired.”
“I am,” she said. “But not that tired.”
“And you’re scared,” I said.
“Without my knight in shining armor I’d be terrified,” she said.
“I should probably bring my jewelry cases,” I said, “just to be safe.”
She raised her arms over her head and clasped her hands together, arched her back, and pretended to yawn. Which of course caused her nightshirt to rise exactly ten inches—I know because I’m a trained observer, and have developed an eye for detail.
“I have to compliment you on your grooming,” I said.
“Oh, Gawd,” she said. And, bless her heart, she managed to blush without pinching her cheeks.
Alison tilted her face and put some huskiness in her voice and said, “Come here, Cosmo.”
I followed her into her room. She closed the door behind me and turned the lock. Then she stepped to the nightstand, dimmed the lights, and turned on her iPod to mask the sounds of the robbery that would soon take place in my room.
She swayed to the music a bit and peeled off her nightshirt. “Cosmo, you know what I’d like to do right now?” she purred.
“What’s that?”
“I’d like to give you a blow job.”
“Of course you would,” I said. “But what’s in it for me?”
Chapter 30
To borrow a phrase from my former Commander In Chief, I did not have sexual relations with that woman, Alison Cilice.
In fact, I didn’t even engage in the type of relations that would cause a stain or force me to define the word “is.” I thought about it, wondering if I could find a way to justify it in the name of national security. After all, the mission started out as a national security issue, right? Unfortunately, it quickly made a left turn into this hotel robbery ring. Alison was certainly a thief. But was she a terrorist sympathizer as well? I didn’t think so. If the guy from Denver—Adnan Afaya—was trying to infiltrate the Park ‘N Fly’s, as Darwin believed, I didn’t think he’d made the pitch to Alison yet. My guess was the cameras caught them on a first or second date. I also didn’t think Afaya was tied to the hotel robberies, so I didn’t see any way to justify making stains with Alison. But I was in a spot: I didn’t feel comfortable having sex with her, but I also couldn’t leave yet, since I had to let things run their course next door.
Which is why, after initially rebuking Alison’s advances, I agreed to lie in her bed awhile, fully clothed. I routinely test weapons and torture devices for the military, so I wasn’t worried about succumbing to her advances. But she came at me from a different place than the military. Where the weapons relied on pain, Alison nibbled my ear and gently blew warm air into it. This part wasn’t cheating, I told myself. But it wasn’t torture, either, and she was making progress. I knew I had to put a stop to it. But before I could make that announcement, Alison started moving her hands in a practiced manner all over my body. This still wasn’t cheating, but it had some of the earmarks of torture. She quickly got to the area of my body that would constitute cheating, and it was finally time to draw the line. I managed to find my voice.
“Sometime later tonight I’m going to regret that I said this now—but you need to stop doing that,” I said.
“Can’t hear you,” she said, playfully. She grabbed my hand and thrust it between her legs and held it there while she bucked her hips. Thinking back on it now, I probably could have muscled my hand out of there a few seconds quicker than I did.
“You’re hired!” I said.
“What?”
“What I meant to say was, I can’t do this.”
“Why not?”
“It’s that time of the month.”
“Not funny,” she said.
“I have a headache. I’m tired. The kids might come in.”
“Is it me? Is it because I’m fat?”
“Of course not,” I said. “You’re beautiful.”
“What, I’m not sexy enough for you?”
“You’re definitely sexy enough.”
“Then really,” she said. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m sort of involved with someone.”
“Unless she’s here, I don’t see a problem.”
“The problem is—and I can’t believe I’m saying this—I’d be using you. And that would be—what’s the word I’m searching for? –Oh yeah: wrong.”
I may have heard the slightest sound next door. Alison definitely heard it. She moved closer and whispered, “Cosmo, what you just said—it’s so respectful. Maybe you didn’t mean to, but you’ve gotten me all worked up tonight. Can you just lay here with me a few minutes while I sort of solve my own problem?”
“I can do that,” I said.
Over the next twenty minutes I forced myself not to laugh as Alison pinched, tugged and slapped various parts of her body while performing an over-the-top vocal medley from her sexual songbook: high-pitched, chirping sex sounds, throaty moans, and some sort of maniacal horse whinny toward the end that erupted into a crescendo of low-budget porn passion.
Which taught me that sex, when you’re not a participant—can be hysterical. I’ve never been disinterested in sex before, so this was a ground-breaking experience for me. It gave me a sense of power I’d never felt before.
So this is what it must feel like to be the woman, I thought. To have all the sexual power in the relationship.
When Alison’s last gasps and spasms had subsided, I said, “I need to make a quick call.”
I brightened the light, lifted her phone from the cradle and dialed my room number. Alison heard the phone ringing next door.
“What the—”
I held up a finger to silence her. Quinn answered, said a few words, and I said “Okay.”
I hung up the phone and said, “Alison, we need to talk.”
She sat up in the bed and covered her breasts with her arms, a gesture that seemed odd, considering what we’d just been through.
“What’s going on?” she said, trying to keep her voice steady, but failing miserably.
“There are two dead bodies next door.”
Her eyes grew wide. She instinctively looked at the door that adjoined my room, then back at me.
“What are you talking about?” she said.
I looked at her. “Alison, I genuinely like you, but you’ve stumbled into something far more dangerous than you think. But I’m going to try hard to keep you from getting killed, because I have a job waiting for you when this is all over.”
Something in my voice gave her the reassurance to say, “If you think I’m going to sell jewelry for a living—”
“Alison, listen up. I’m not a jewelry salesman.”
I let that sink in for a minute before continuing. “I’m an assassin for the government. I kill terrorists.”
She started laughing.
“I admire the fact that you can laugh at me when there are two dead men lying on the floor next door, men that are dead because you and the bellman tried to rob me tonight.”
She stopped laughing.
“You know the big, scary guy that was following you tonight?”
She tried to speak, but the words didn’t make it out of her throat. She swallowed and nodded her head slowly, not wanting to hear about the big, scary guy.
“His name is Augustus Quinn,” I said. “He works for me.”
There was a long pause. When she finally spoke, her voice had lost most of its power.
“What’s going to happen now?” she said.
“You’re going to get dressed and then we’re going next door and see if you can identify the two goons on the floor. Then we’re going to have a little chat about the bellman and your boyfriend.”
“What boyfriend?”
“The guy in Denver. Adnan Afaya.”
“Who?”
“Maybe you know him by a different name. But the guy you’re dating in Denver is Adnan Afaya, a known terrorist.”
Alison let out a gasp that sounded much more convincing than the sexual sounds she’d made a few moments earlier. Her face went pale and she seemed about to faint. Either she was the best actress in the world or she was genuinely frightened.
Again it took a little time before she was able to speak.
“Would you be a gentleman and turn your head while I put on my clothes?” she said.
“No.”
She did a double take. “Why not?”
“I turned down enough action tonight to make me eligible for sainthood. This might be the last opportunity I’ll ever have to see you naked.”
“I can guarantee it,” she said.
I gestured toward her open suitcase on the floor.
She stared at me with a blank expression, trying to read me, but that was getting her nowhere. I’ve made a career out of not being predictable. I tilted my head toward her suitcase. “This would be a good time to get moving, Alison.”
“Fine,” she huffed. “Knock yourself out, then.”
She slid out of the bed and began pulling an outfit together: clean underwear, pink tank top, gray sweat suit, socks, jogging shoes. As she stepped into her panties she said, “I knew your name wasn’t Cosmo Burlap.”
“It’s that type of perception that makes you a good job candidate,” I said.
“What type of work do you have in mind,” she said. “Killing people? Because I don’t think I can do that.”
“We can talk about it later. Right now there’s work to do. You ready?”
She laced up her jogging shoes and nodded.
We crossed the floor to the connecting door. I turned the lock and put my hand on the doorknob and paused.
“You need to prepare yourself for what you’re going to see in here,” I said. “Try not to scream.”
“I’ve seen dead bodies before,” she said.
“I’m talking about Quinn,” I said.
Chapter 31
Entering the room, this is what we saw: Quinn, sitting at the table with a Diet Coke, finishing a phone call, two guys laid out peacefully on one of the queen-sized beds. One of the robbers was weasel-faced, with thick black hair slicked straight back. The other had a shaved head and a Fu Manchu mustache. Both were big and covered with prison tats. I made my voice as eerie as possible and whispered, “I see dead people.”
Quinn said, “Sixth Sense, 1999.”
Alison surprised me by walking straight up to Quinn with her hand extended.
“I’m Alison,” she said.
Quinn looked at me before responding. I nodded, and he got to his feet. Alison took a step back to accommodate his size, but never took her eyes off him. He placed her hand in his and studied it, as if it were a plaything and he was a gorilla. He lifted her fingertips to the area of his face where lips are normally found, and made a kissing sound.
“I already like you better than your friends,” he said, gesturing toward the bodies.
Alison looked them over carefully. They were dead, with no visible injuries.
“How’d they die?” she said.
Quinn looked at me. I nodded again.
“I Pronged ‘em,” he said.
It was Alison’s turn to look at me.
I said, “Robert Pronge was a fearsome psychopath who discovered a way to mix cyanide with dimethyl sulfoxide, which he used to put in spray bottles. He sprayed his victims in the face like they were bugs, and like bugs, they died within seconds.”
To Quinn I said, “These guys are big. How’d you manage to spray both of them?”
“One came in while the other stood guard in the hall. The first guy kept the door cracked so he could leave quietly after robbing you.”
He glanced at Alison, and she dropped her eyes and looked away.
“The guy searching the room finally opened the bathroom door. When he did, I sprayed him and grabbed him by the shirt to keep him from falling. Son of a bitch was heavy, and hard to maneuver onto the bed, but I managed. Couple minutes later the other one’s getting antsy, puts his face near the open part of the door and whispers to his partner, ‘You need help?’ I whisper back, “Yeah!’ He comes in and I Pronge him and lay him next to the first guy.”
