Maybe (5 page)

Rachel Case.

SAM LOOKS HAPPY, sitting in the chair by the wall.

Rachel’s sitting on the side of her bed, facing him in a room so small their knees are practically touching.

“Where’s Kevin?”

“Las Vegas.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure.”

“How long’s he been there?”

“At least a month, off and on.”

She lets that information roll around in her head until she loses track of it.

She says, “Kevin’s my boyfriend.”

Sam nods. “Have you ever heard the name Gwen Peters?”

“I don’t think so. Why?”

“She’s an unusually pretty, platinum blonde.”

“How old?”

“Twenty, I think, and a former stripper. She was married to a gambler named Lucky Peters.”

Rachel moves her mouth to one side and nibbles at the corner of her mouth.

“A stripper? Why would I know a stripper?”

Sam says, “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but she’s been fucking Kevin.”

Rachel leaps to her feet and slaps him with her right hand. As he tries to cover up, she makes a fist with her left, and connects with his jaw. She rears back to slap him again with her right hand, but he grabs her wrist, then—shit!—takes another left hook to the face. He can’t time the left while holding the right, so he ducks under her arms while standing, and lifts her off her feet and throws her backwards, onto the bed. As she tries to sit up he pins her arms, but leaves his face exposed. She head-butts him, connecting with his nose.

Sam feels it break.

He howls and jumps back and runs out of the room to the infirmary.

Kevin is only allowed to call Rachel once a week, on Sundays, but Rachel can call him anytime, if she gets permission from Major Jordan’s office in Area B. She calls the major’s office, a secretary logs her in and dials the number. Kevin often ignores her calls, but this morning, to Rachel’s surprise, he answers.

“Hi baby!” Kevin says.

“You’re in Las Vegas?”

“I am. How’d you know?”

“Who’s Gwen Peters?”

“You remember Callie Carpenter?” he says.

“The blonde.”

“Right. Anyway, Gwen is Callie’s girlfriend.”

“That’s not what I heard.”

“What did you hear?”

“You’ve been fucking her.”

“Who told you that?”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m going to kill her!”

“You’re in an underground bunker,” Kevin says.

“But I’m getting out soon, you said so yourself. And when I do, I’m going to slice her throat and stab her eyes. Then we’ll see how pretty she is! Then I’m going to follow you around and kill everyone you look at! Then we’ll go to bed and make love. When you fall asleep, I’ll stab you eight million times!”

“How’s that psychiatric treatment going for you?” he says.

“You think that’s funny? You think I like being stuck here in this shit hole? You think—”

A strange noise comes over the line. Kevin’s voice is breaking up. She can’t understand him, but it doesn’t matter. Rachel’s got something to say, and says it ten times before hanging up.

What she says is, “Gwen Peters is gonna die!”

Miles Gundy (Felix).

WITH THE DERBY City Fair attack behind him, Miles knows the police will keep a close eye on plastic containers. That will last what, three weeks? In two months they’ll let their guard down, and if Miles is still alive, he’ll nail a public office building’s restroom. People are used to liquid soap. They won’t give it up without a fight.

State fair officials around the country will stop using hand sanitizers. Government offices might need a little extra coaxing.

Miles catches his reflection in the interior mirror of his Honda Accord and says, “You know what this means? It means you made a difference, Miles! You changed the system.”

He smiles.

It’s a beautiful Sunday afternoon in central Tennessee, and everything’s going his way. He created mayhem in one state, today will make two. Miles slides a CD into the slot on the dashboard and jerks his body to the maniacal beat of his favorite tune,
Demon Devil Dog,
as it thunders from six speakers of surround sound. His Accord offers 160 watts of total stereo output, and Miles is leaving no watt unused.

At this decibel level, one tune’s enough. When the song’s last shriek dies down, Miles glances at the mirror and says, “From now on every man, woman, and child will have to stop and think before washing their hands in a public place. Something they took for granted their whole life will now be a source of fear.”

He nods at himself and adds, “Thanks to you.”

He cruises the tony neighborhood of Blair, a suburb of Nashville, till he sees what he’s looking for.

Balloons and a poster.

Balloons and a poster lets the whole world know a kid is having a birthday party. All you have to do is follow the arrow on the signs. Miles shakes his head in disbelief, thinking how the unsuspecting parents are leading him to the killing field. After today, no parent will dare put up balloons and a poster to direct guests to their children’s birthday parties.

State by state, event by event, Miles will change the way people live their lives.

What better way for a dying, unemployed chemist to achieve immortality?

Miles follows the posters to the party location, turns into the long driveway, parks by the other cars in the circle. He pops the trunk, removes a giant, double-stuffed cookie cake, and carries it to the front door.

He balances the giant cake in his left hand, while pressing the door bell with his right.

A bored teenager opens the door and directs him through the house to the backyard. As the children recognize the brightly-colored box, they rush to surround Miles. Two of the moms clear off a space on the poolside table to accommodate the cookie cake.

Miles’s eyes follow the movements of one of the moms, a pretty redhead, who looks up in time to catch him staring down her blouse. She gives him a disgusted look that shows what she thinks of a delivery man who’s crass enough to attempt a down-blouse while surrounded by children at a kids’ birthday party.

Miles smiles broadly and says, “Happy Birthday!” then leaves. No one thinks to ask if there’s a bill to pay. No one offers him a tip, or escorts him back through the house. As he stands in the kitchen, looking around, he considers sneaking through the house. He probably has time to do some truly dastardly things.

But why push his luck?

He works his way to the foyer, opens the front door, gets in his car, and backs out the driveway.

Miles purchased the pre-made cookie cake in a busy mall in Indianapolis two days ago. It’ll be slightly stale, but the kids won’t notice. They also won’t notice the miniscule amount of ricin poison Miles dusted over the top of the filling. It was a bitch getting the top layer of cookie off the cake and back on again, and it didn’t turn out quite as pretty as it was when purchased, but again, the kids won’t care.

Miles hopes the pretty redhead mom with the pale pink bra samples the cookie cake.

Donovan Creed.

I’VE ONLY BEEN in Vegas a few weeks, but I’ve already made an investment. I purchased a plastic surgery center and day spa I plan to open when the police release the building to me. They’re still investigating a mass murder that took place on the premises. I’ll start fresh with a whole new staff headed by Dr. Eamon Petrovsky, the world’s greatest plastic surgeon. Dr. Petrovsky (I call him Dr. P.) headed the team of surgeons that gave me the new face I’m wearing.

Earlier today I called Dr. P. and told him to pack some clothes for our trip.

“What trip?” he said.

“We’re flying to Louisville, Kentucky.”

“Why?”

“What do you care? Until our license is granted, you’re unemployed.”

I told him I’d swing by his place at three and give him a ride to the private airfield. Then I went for a run, worked out in Callie’s gym a half hour, then took a shower. After packing an overnight bag, I found the women glued to the TV in the den.

“What’s happened?” I ask.

“Remember Mindy Renee Whittaker?” Callie says.

I think a minute. “The kid who got kidnapped years ago?”

Callie nods.

“What about her?”

“She’s been in witness relo. But someone just blew her cover!”

“What kind of asshole would do that?”

“They’re not saying. But ten to one it’s her husband.”

“She’s married? How’s that possible? She’s just a kid.”

“Time flies. Believe it or not, she’s twenty-four now.”

I scoot onto the couch next to Maybe and watch the drama unfold. It’s so weird, calling my daughter Maybe, but it’s something I need to get used to.

The photo they’re showing of Dani Ripper’s a good one, designed to build ratings.

She’s hot.

“WHY ARE WE flying to Louisville?” Dr. P. asks.

We’re at his place. I’m carrying his luggage.

“Where’s your medical bag?”

“You didn’t mention bringing it.”

“I shouldn’t have to! You’re a doctor! What if I get shot or something?”

“Relax, Donovan. It’s only a matter of retrieving it from the den.”

He leaves to fetch it.

An hour later we’re airborne, thanks to Bob Koltech, who owns and operates a fleet of six jets. Bob and I have a great relationship. In return for giving me instant service and personally flying me wherever I wish to go, no questions asked, I pay Bob twice his normal fees.

Dr. P. says, “Did you hear they found Mindy Renee?”

“She’s Dani Ripper now. It’s all over the news.”

Indeed, it’s a compelling story. Even Callie’s hooked. One network promised around-the-clock coverage as the story develops, so Callie and the others are having a Dani party tonight, complete with pizza and cheese bread! Such fare is no big deal for me, but these ladies are extremely calorie conscious.

At ten forty-five local time we land at General Aviation, near Standiford Field in Louisville. Bob has a limo waiting for us, and within twenty minutes Dr. P. and I are strolling through the lobby of the Seelbach Hotel.

We check in, grab a drink together, and go to our respective rooms. While getting comfortable I turn on the TV to catch the latest on Dani Ripper.

Like Callie said, Mindy Renee Whittaker’s all grown up now. At twenty-four, she’s blossomed into one of the prettiest women I’ve ever seen, assuming the photos are authentic. They say she’s a private investigator, working out of Cincinnati. Changed her name to Dani Ripper nine years ago.

Dani Ripper? As in Jack the Ripper? Odd name for a girl to make up.

But I like it.

And I like her.

I find myself wondering if a gorgeous private eye like Dani Ripper might be interested in working with me. I fire up my laptop to see what the internet says about her.

More photos.

Stunning. Not as sexy as Gwen, but prettier.

Not as beautiful as Callie, but close.

And there’s this: she’s married.

That’s her husband on TV, holding a press conference in front of their house.

Ben Davis. But Dani goes by Ripper, not Davis. I wonder why.