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“True.”
“So what’s the hundred million dollars for?”
“Ask me if I can remove the chip from your brain.”
“Can you?”
“No. And no one else on earth can, either, without killing you. Even if I could remove it, Darwin would know.”
“I wonder why he’s kept it a secret from me,” I say.
“I don’t know. What I do know is they’ve got a huge amount of time and money invested in you. But they fear you. Darwin probably considers this the ultimate insurance policy.”
I can certainly understand it in those terms. I’ve already got an enormous amount of money on deposit that’s generating a hundred million dollar-a-year income for Darwin. He knows if something happens to me, the monthly flow of money stops. So Darwin should think twice before flipping the switch. On the other hand, Darwin’s got plenty of money, so maybe it wouldn’t be such a hard decision for him. Then again, why kill the golden goose? My best guess, I’m probably safe from Darwin. But I don’t like the idea my brain could liquefy at any given moment.
“Is Darwin the only one who can flip the switch?”
“I honestly don’t know,” he says.
“How vulnerable am I?”
“They can only kill you via satellite, so if you’re living, say, forty feet below the earth, you’d probably be safe.”
“Good to know.”
“You’ve had it in there more than a year,” he says.
“So?”
“You’ve lasted this long, you’re probably safe.”
“Unless the wrong person gets a hold of the switch,” I say.
“It’s not like an actual switch,” he says. “There’s a code.”
“Who created it?”
“I’m not sure. But I installed the device.”
“Ah,” I say.
So Doc Howard knows the code. I wonder if I should simply beat it out of him and save the money. But then I remind myself that Doc Howard’s a brilliant man. The kind who would have anticipated my first instinct, and have a counter-measure prepared.
Doc Howard says, “I can reprogram the code so that it can’t be activated.”
“So I’d be paying you to change the code.”
“That’s right.”
“And Darwin will never know.”
“Unless he’s watching you while he types it in.”
“Which is unlikely.”
“Here’s the best part: if we do this, you’ll be able to tell if he ever does punch in his code.”
“Very valuable piece of information,” I say.
“You can see why, right?”
“Of course. Darwin will think I’m dead, and I’ll know he tried to kill me.”
“Exactly.”
“But what prevents you from re-setting the code after I pay you?”
“When I verify you’ve wired the money to my offshore account, I’ll show you how to set the code. We’ll set a new one together. After that, you can change it whenever you wish.”
“Burglar alarms use codes,” I say.
He frowns. “They do. What’s your point?”
“You can assign me a personal code that will get me in your house without setting off the alarm. And each of your family members can have a different code.”
“So?”
“So, what if there’s more than one code?”
“I doubt there’s more than one access code,” he says, “because Darwin would want sole control over your demise. But for the sake of argument, let’s assume there’s more than one. It doesn’t matter, because before you and I can change the code, we have to disable the chip. When that happens, the previous codes are wiped out. It’s like pressing the factory reset button on your cell phone.”
“What keeps you or Darwin from disabling the chip next week and re-setting the code?”
“Well, you’ve got me there,” Doc Howard says. “I’m positive the only way to disable the chip is to have the current code. But I can’t prove it. Still, you’ll know if someone has done that to you, because when the chip is disabled, it buzzes. It will be very uncomfortable. If you ever feel the buzz, you’ll know someone has disabled the chip. When the buzzing stops, you’ll know they’ve set up a new code.”
“At which time I can deactivate the chip again?”
“Precisely.”
“Is there a way to prove you’re giving me the right code?”
“How many brain-burning incidents have you experienced?”
“How many do you think I’ve had?”
“I’m hoping you’ve had two. The first was Darwin’s code, which I attempted to access. The second was mine. The third was Darwin’s again, and if I’m right, that one shouldn’t have worked.”
“So you’ve proven it to your satisfaction,” I say. “Can you prove it to mine?”
He smiles and gestures to the chair by the bed. “Have a seat.”
“I’d rather stand.”
“Please,” he says. “I’m afraid when the pain starts, you might lash out at me, and if that happens, I might not be able to over-ride the sequence in time. My intention is to have you experience as little pain as possible, while proving the lethal nature of the chip.”
I frown, then take a seat. “How long are you going to let it run?”
“You won’t be able to stand more than two seconds.”
“How long could you run it before there’s permanent brain damage?”
“I don’t know. Maybe ten seconds.”
“Run it for nine,” I say.
“Donovan. You don’t understand. This is not some Army test weapon that’s been used on an actual human being. I could be wrong about the ten seconds.”
“Doc, look at me.” He does. “You expect me to fork over a hundred million dollars based on two seconds’ worth of pain?”
“Two seconds should be more than sufficient. And anyway, I’m trying to protect my investment. If your brain turns to mush, you won’t be able to wire the money.”
“Give me nine seconds. I want my money’s worth.”
Doc Howard sighs. “Very well.” He takes what looks like a fancy wristwatch from his pants pocket, studies it a moment, then presses a button. The face opens up, and he says, “You’re going to feel a slight burning sensation.”
“Funny.”
He taps the device four times and I feel a bomb go off in my head. The pain is excruciating. No, it’s worse than that. It feels like…no. There are no words to express it. Example. Example. Example. Okay. If you lay me down on the floor, and take the largest drill you can find, say an inch in diameter, and you and drill a one-inch hole in the center of my forehead until you’ve created a deep cavity, then jam a funnel into it, and pour enough molten lava to fill the cavity, then take a hammer, and pound the lava till it’s cooled. Then heat two ice picks until they’re as hot as branding irons, and use the hammer to pound the red-hot ice picks into each of my eyes until they’ve gone all the way to the hilt—do all that, and you might have an inkling what the first second feels like.
The next eight are much worse.
When I come to, Doc Howard and I look at each other a minute. Then he says, “I can’t imagine how you endured that.”
I clear my throat, try to speak. Nothing comes out. I swallow a couple of times. Then say, “Is that all you got?”
He laughs. “You’re one of a kind, Donovan.”
“As you are,” I say.
“So what do you think about my offer? Is a hundred million a fair price?”
“It was a rough ride,” I admit. “But the pain was manageable. A few more seconds and I wouldn’t have felt anything anyway, so it’s not the worst way I can think of to die. But what I can’t abide is letting Darwin kill me any time it suits him, from anywhere in the world. If you can help me prevent that, then your offer is a bargain.”
“No hard feelings?” he says.
“You’re screwing Darwin, not me. And if he finds out you reset his code—”
“If he finds out, you’ll know it, and I’ll trust you to deal with it,” Doc Howard says.
“You better hope I do.”
“I’m betting my life on you.”
In a strange way, I’m flattered. I mean, sure, he’s gaining a hundred million dollars. But he also thinks I can handle Darwin, and all of Darwin’s resources, which makes me feel like the owner of Seabiscuit, going against War Admiral, knowing the fans have bet their life’s savings on the underdog.
“Doc, I’m not happy you put the chip in my brain, but I understand why you did it. I know you’re feathering your nest at my expense, but the truth is, I’m only giving you a small portion of the money I stole from someone else. So how can I blame you? We’re probably both getting tired of doing some of the things we’ve done. But I still need you to help me save Rachel, and I know there’ll be a hundred things I’ll need from you in the future. So I’d like to consider this payment a cost of doing business with you.
“Honestly?”
I shrug. “All honesty is contextual. But if you do everything I ask of you with regard to these Asprin people, especially the one we’re calling Paula, and you keep these results between the two of us, I’ll wire the money to your account.”
36.
It’s 9:00 p.m., and the only sleep I’ve logged since Sam’s “reveal” occurred at altitude as I criss-crossed the continent. Fourteen hours have passed since Doc Howard burned my brain for nine full seconds, and I’m still feeling the after-effects.
Callie and I are standing in the eighth-floor hallway of the Lucian-Jevere Hotel and Conference Center in Chicago. After checking for cameras, I stand out of view while Callie knocks on the door of Roger Asprin’s suite. It’s late, and Chicago’s a dangerous place, but Callie is Callie, and of course, Roger opens the door. She punches his throat hard enough to keep him from crying out, then pushes him back into his room as she enters. I slip in behind them and lock the door.
It’s just like old times. Roger can’t scream because I’ve injected his vocal chords with an anesthetic. I’ve got a tracheal tube kit open and ready to use in the event his neck swells enough to impair his oxygen supply.
“I know you can’t speak,” I say, “but you can hear and feel things.”
He shakes his head as if to indicate I’m wrong. Callie kicks him in the nuts and his eyes roll up in his head. He’d kick us if he could, but I’ve got his legs tied to either side of the desk chair I’ve placed in the center of his bedroom. Unlike Hector, Roger’s wearing underwear. He also sports a t-shirt, though not for long. I rip it off.
“You know what really hurts?” I say.
Then I show him.
Ten minutes later, tears are streaming from Roger’s bloodshot eyes. I say, “Roger, I know you’re in pain, probably the worst you’ve ever had to endure. But I promise you, everything I’ve done so far will seem like a day at the spa compared to what I will do, if you refuse to cooperate.”
I look at Callie. “You hungry?”
“I could eat a bite,” she says.
“Roger, we’re going to order room service. By the time we’re done, you’ll be able to whisper some answers.”
I’m not wild about the in-room dining options on the menu, but the Baked Penne Arribiatta looks okay. Callie wants the Caesar Salad, until I explain it includes white anchovies and a boiled egg.
“I don’t like hairy fish,” she says, “and boiled eggs do not belong in a Caesar salad.”
“I agree about the egg,” I say, “but I think you’ll like the anchovies.”
“Why’s that?”
“They’re marinated in white vinegar instead of salt cured and packed in oil, like regular anchovies. Of course, fresh are best, but where are you going to find those?”
“They can keep their albino anchovies,” she says. “Their little pink eyes give me the creeps.”
I wonder if I should explain these aren’t albino anchovies, then realize, who gives a shit? She doesn’t want the salad.
“How about the Braised Pork Shank and Black Forest Mushroom Risotto?” I say.
“Lips that touch pork shank shall never touch mine,” Callie says.
I hand her the menu. She reads it, frowning, until she suddenly smiles.
“What have you found?” I ask.
“The Kid’s Menu.”
“Chicken fingers? Pizza?”
“Nope. Strawberries and Rice Krispies. Call it in, Coleman.”
“Coleman?”
“From Trading Places.”
“Ah. Winthorpe’s butler.”
After the room service guy leaves, I open the door so we can keep an eye on Roger.
We enjoy our food in silence. When we’re finished, Callie says, “What sort of name is Asprin?”
“Nordic.”
“You are so full of shit.”
I shrug. “Busted.”
From the next room, Roger makes a hissing sound. His mouth is moving up and down like a fresh-caught bass out of water.
“Is that our cue?” Callie says.
“It is.”
37.
“Who are you? What do you want? Why are you doing this to me?” Roger Asprin whispers.
“I’m going to answer your questions in the order you asked them,” I say. “Who are we? I’m Donovan Creed, and this is Callie Carpenter. What do we want? Rachel Case.”
Roger’s eyes grow wide. He starts to speak. I hold up my hand to stop him. “Why are we doing this to you? Because you’re the only person in the world who can help us get Rachel back. But the real question you should be asking is this: what are we willing to do in order to get what we want? Because here’s the thing, Roger: we’ve got your wife. Callie, show him the video feed.”
Callie holds her cell phone where Roger can see Jane in the hospital bed at Sensory.
“You see how she’s fighting against the straps? She’s really angry, Roger. But soon she’s going to be very frightened, instead. You can save her, or you can watch her die a slow, painful death.”
“You don’t understand,” Roger whispers. “We’re saving mankind.”
“You don’t kidnap and kill people to save mankind,” I say. “You killed Rachel’s doctor. You tried to kill her caretaker. You want to save the world? Fine. Ask?”
“Ask?”
“Yeah, that’s right, asshole. You could’ve asked Rachel to help you.”
Roger swallows, clears his throat. His voice is starting to come back, but it’s hoarse.
“Cough a couple of times,” I say. “That should help.”
He does. “There are—” his voice cracks.
I hold up my hand again. “Take a minute. We can’t understand what you’re saying.”
He coughs a couple more times. Then says, “There are people in the world who would use her as a weapon. They could literally wipe out a significant percentage of the earth’s population.”
“Our government could do the same.”
“No. We’re saving the world. You have no idea. This is the breakthrough we’ve sought for more than 70 years.”
“Is curing the Spanish Flu worth dying for?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Is it worth watching your wife tortured to death?”
“If that’s your plan, I’d rather you kill me first. But yes, it’s worth Jane’s suffering. Except that it’s pointless.”
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