But when she speaks she says none of those things.
What she says is, “You’re going to catch the bastard that did this. And when you do, you’re going to torture him in the cruelest possible way.”
“Yes.”
Then she says, “You won’t turn him over to the authorities. You’ll make sure he’s dead.”
“Yes.”
“But I need to be there, Donovan. I need to talk to him.”
I look at her. “Why?”
“I need to understand his thought process. I need to know what makes him tick.”
“It’ll make you a better psychologist?”
“I believe it will.”
“Do you want to participate in the torture?”
“No. But I want to watch.”
We stare at each other a moment.
Then we attack.
To put it more accurately, Miranda attacks me. She slaps my face with both hands as hard as she can, over and over, stopping only to fall on her back and rip her blouse open. I take this as a cue to remove the rest of her clothing, which is no easy task while getting the shit slapped out of me.
Now, entering her, I expect the slapping to stop. But it intensifies! Again and again she slaps my face. She eventually makes her hands into fists and flails away at my face. Miranda’s not a skilled fighter, so I lean into her punches to intensify the effect.
When she bloodies my nose and lips she gets excited and starts bucking me. I ride it out as long as I can, which roughly translates to eighty seconds.
As you might imagine, this type of fucking is exhausting, hard work.
When we finish we’re panting like overweight dogs after a two-mile sprint.
Miranda says, “Are you okay?”
“I am.”
“Good. Now it’s my turn.”
I look at her. “What do you mean?”
“I’ll get on top while you hit me.”
16
I DIDN’T HIT Miranda.
But she did manage to talk me into pulling her hair from behind.
A little.
After a hot shower I inspect my puffy face and split lip in the bathroom mirror while thinking about Miranda’s perfect ACT score and her lifetime four-point-oh grade point average, and wonder briefly about the direction modern psychology is taking.
We pack everything except her torn blouse, and meet Dr. P. in the lobby, where I notice him staring at the scratches on my face.
“It took three years to create that face,” he says. “Show some respect, will you?”
“Sorry, Doc,” I say, while winking at Miranda.
Two hours later our pilot, Bob Koltech, expertly guides his jet onto the private runway outside Roanoke, Virginia, and taxies as close to the private aviation building as he can get. I sign the form, grab the rental car keys, and drive Miranda and Dr. P. to a hotel on I-81 just north of 581. Miranda and I check into our room, brush our teeth, and meet in the restaurant for sandwiches.
Dr. P. says, “I’m not sure why I’m here.”
“I’ve got an errand to run.”
Miranda says, “Can I come?”
“Yes.”
I look at Dr. P. “How about you?”
“I hate that place,” he says. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll stay here and read.”
“What place?” Miranda says.
“Sensory Resources,” Dr. P. says. “Headquarters.”
Miranda says, “Does this have anything to do with the acid guy?”
“We’re calling him Felix,” I say. “And no, it doesn’t.”
“Why Felix?”
I shrug.
Dr. P. says, “Do you have any objection to me catching a commercial flight back to Vegas?”
“I might need you.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. It’s a feeling I have.”
“A feeling.”
“That’s right.”
He frowns again. “Fine.”
“You can sit in the sun by the pool.”
He puts his index finger in the air and spins it around.
“Whoopee!” he says.
“I thought old people loved sitting in the sun, by the pool.”
“Fuck you,” he says.
17
“AM I ALLOWED to be pissed off?” Lou Kelly says.
Miranda and I are in the rental car, headed south on 81, bound for Sensory Resources, in Bedford, Virginia.
Wait. I know what you’re thinking. Bedford’s east of Roanoke, not south.
You’re right. I mean, that’s what I’ve always told you.
But it’s not true.
I’m trusting you with this because…well, because I trust you. You’ve known me awhile, now, and you deserve the truth. Sensory isn’t near Bedford. It’s eighty miles south-west.
Why did I lie?
We’ve always lied about the actual location. It’s what I programmed my staff and all the workers to say.
Here’s why:
Bedford’s a small town, where everyone knows everything about everyone else. There are people in Bedford who contact us when strangers show up asking questions about Sensory Resources, Donovan Creed, Lou Kelly, Callie Carpenter, Jarvis Kent, Jeff Tuck, Joe Penny, and the various assassins and bomb-builders who work for us, as well as the doctors and security personnel who work at the Sensory facility.
Those who come to Bedford seeking information…stay in Bedford, if you get my drift.
Lou doesn’t know we’re forty minutes away from paying him a surprise visit, but he’s on the phone and pissed because he just learned…well, I’ll let him say it:
“I busted my ass to get you the victim photos, then I hear you spent the morning viewing not only the photos but the victims themselves!”
“Relax, Lou.”
“This is why you had me fly Miranda Rodriguez to Louisville last night? You could’ve saved me hours of work by telling me your plans. It’s not like I’m sitting around, twiddling my thumbs all day.”
“Listen. Twiddling your thumbs all day is hard work. Don’t let anyone tell you it’s not.”
“Hilarious. Look, if you want to catch Felix, we can’t do the same things. You’re wasting my talents and resources.”
“I agree. This was a spur-of-the moment decision. I hoped to interview the victims, see if they saw anyone suspicious.”
“Did they?”
“Yes. They saw Felix. And Santa, Elvis, and the Tooth Fairy. They were so drugged up they could barely think.”
“I could’ve told you that before you made the trip.”
“I know. But I wanted to see them for myself, in person. It fuels me.”
I put Lou’s call on speaker. Then ask, “Any news on Felix?”
“If I had anything, I would’ve called you.”
“I believe you. But where would we be if I failed to ask?”
“It’s been less than two days since the fair. You expect him to do something this soon?”
“Yes. This is an angry corporate chemist. Probably lost his job recently, so he’s got free time, fresh supplies, and a whole lot of pent up aggression. If we let him cool off or run out of supplies, he’ll probably quit.”
“That’s a good thing.”
“If he quits, he gets away with it.”
“True. But the world’s a better place.”
Miranda and I exchange frowns. I say, “So he cools off, gets another job, and gets fired again. What then?”
Lou says, “What made you narrow him down to a corporate chemist? Why can’t it be a high school or college professor?”
“Did you see the photos of the kids’ faces?”
“Yes.”
“You think a teacher would do something like that?”
“A crazy one, maybe.”
“This is an angry corporate chemist. He’s been fired recently.”
“Not retired?”
“No. Retirement is something you see coming. Felix is angrier than that. He’s been fired for doing something wrong, or because of the economy. Get your geeks to search that angle.”