Bad Doctor

17

Carlos and Charlie.

Present Time.

Carlos and Charlie are confused.

They parked their white panel van a block away and cut through the tree line to the back of Chris Fowler’s house just as they’d been told. They looked through the back window of the garage and saw Kathy Fowler’s Lexus, which meant she was home. The spare key was where it was supposed to be, under the flower pot on the deck behind the den. Carlos and Charlie had come at the precise time they were told, during the half hour window when both neighboring moms would be fetching their kids from separate schools.

But when they opened the back door and crept quietly through the den, Charlie tripped on Carlos’s foot, knocking a lamp to the floor, and Kathy didn’t shout. If you were alone in your home and something crashed loudly in the den, wouldn’t you shout something like, “Hello? Is anyone there?” Or yell, “Go away! I’ve got a gun!”

Wouldn’t you?

Kathy Fowler did none of these things, so Carlos and Charlie are confused.

“Clumsy oaf!” Carlos whispers. “Get your gun out. Pray she doesn’t shoot us first.”

“Your fault,” Charlie whispers back. “You stopped short.”

“You’ve always been clumsy.”

“I’m light on my feet,” Charlie says. “Everyone says so.”

“What they say is you’re light in the loafers.”

“Same thing.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Give it a rest, okay? Now turn so I can cover the bedroom door.”

Carlos whispers, “What if she comes from the kitchen?”

“Then she’ll have a knife, not a gun. If you see her, give a shout, and we’ll turn that way. I’ll have time to shoot her.”

“If she comes from the kitchen, just pass me the gun, dick breath.”

“ You? Are you kidding me? You’re the worst shooter on earth! You couldn’t hit her if her tit was stuck in your gun barrel!”

“Fine. If she comes from the kitchen, we’ll spin clockwise.”

“I’m faster counter-clockwise.”

“You’re also clumsier. Note the lamp on the floor.”

See? This is the problem with being Siamese twin killers for hire. Carlos and Charlie are conjoined at the hip, shoulder, and neck, possessing two heads, two arms, and four legs between them.

“Where’s Kathy?” Charlie says. “She must’ve heard the noise.”

“Maybe she’s in the shower.”

“Maybe she called 911.”

“Shit!” Carlos says. “You’re right. She’s probably hiding somewhere, while remaining on the line.”

“Remaining?”

“That’s what the 911 operators tell you to do. ‘Remain on the line.’”

“You didn’t cut the phone line?”

Due to the way their heads are positioned, Carlos’s neck lacks the range of motion needed to see his brother’s face. But if he could see Charlie’s face right now, he’d give him a withering look.

“Yeah,” Carlos says. “I cut the phone cord while you were knocking over the lamp. Then I humped Kathy in the bedroom while you played show tunes on the piano.”

“You don’t have to be a smart ass.”

“I started life as a dumb ass but people kept calling me Charlie.”

“Hilarious. Is there a phone on your side?”

Carlos looks around. “Yeah. End table, by the sofa.”

“Lead the way, please.”

They shuffle to the phone. Carlos picks it up, listens.

“Well?” Charlie says.

“Dial tone.”

“Good. Let’s check the shower.”

“I want first look,” Carlos says.

“What if she’s hiding in there with Chris’s gun?”

“Good point. You lead. But if she’s in the shower, I want to see.”

“Pervert!”

“At least I’m straight!”

“At least I’m not!”

They shuffle quietly to the hallway, work their way to the master bath. Charlie sees Kathy on her knees with her rear end facing him, her torso leaning over the edge of the tub.

Charlie cocks his gun, says, “Kathy? Sweetie? Don’t move a muscle, okay?”

She doesn’t. Not a muscle.

“What’s happening?” Carlos says.

“She’s either deaf or dead.”

“She’s not deaf.”

“How do you know?”

“Chris would’ve told us. Move up so I can see.”

“Look in the mirror.”

Carlos does. Then says, “What the hell are you wearing?”

Charlie’s hand instinctively moves to his neck. “Nothing.”

“Are those mom’s necklaces?”

“I brought them for good luck.”

“How many are you wearing?”

“Three.”

“What if we’d gotten in a scuffle and one of them broke?”

“I suppose we’d have to gather up the little pearls.”

“What if we had to make a run for it?”

“Run?” Charlie says. “Are you kidding me? It took us a full minute to get from the den to the bathroom!”

“Figure of speech.”

“We couldn’t outrun a sloth on propofol!”

“You made your point, Charlie. Mine is this: hit men don’t wear pearls.”

“We could start a new trend.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Look, it’s bad enough you wear a Velcro bra and panties to bed every night.”

“So?”

“Let’s focus. I see blood in the water.”

“Blood?”

“In the tub. And Kathy’s head’s under water. She’s dead.”

He starts moving toward her. Charlie’s forced to follow.

Charlie says, “Slow down. It might be a trap.”

“A trap?”

“She could be playing possum.”

“I have no idea what that means, but there’s blood, Charlie. And did you hear me say her head’s under the water?”

“Maybe she’s holding her breath.”

“Trust me, she’s dead.”

Carlos and Charlie have lived like this since birth. Now that Kathy’s a non-issue, they ease into the natural muscular cooperation that got them through twenty-eight years of life, one hour at a time. Carlos’s legs are better suited to walking, Charlie’s arm and hand is more functional. Carlos instinctively knows how to angle, dip, and turn, so Charlie can see.

“I’ll take her pulse,” Charlie says.

“Good idea. Wonder what we’ll learn,” Carlos says, sarcastically.

The boys lower their bodies until they’re on their knees. Charlie places his hand on Kathy’s neck.

“She’s dead,” he says.

“There’s a shock.”

Charlie looks at Kathy, shakes his head and sighs. “If my time comes, make sure I’m not wearing sweatpants, okay?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Carlos says, “Help me turn.”

“Which way?”

“To the right, so I can reach her.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

Still on their knees they make a quarter-turn to the right. When Charlie hears Carlos breathing heavily he says, “What the fudge are you doing?”

“What’s it look like?”

“Hilarious. You know I can’t see what you’re doing.”

“Good. So you can’t tell mom.”

Charlie doesn’t possess the leg strength Carlos does, but when he makes sudden moves, he can temporarily force the action.

He suddenly stands up, loses his balance, and both twins topple to the floor.

“What the hell?” Carlos says.

Charlie lands at an angle that offers him a view of the body. Kathy’s sweat pants and panties have been pulled down to her knees.

“What’s the matter with you?” he shouts.

“I wasn’t going to do her or anything,” Carlos says. “I just wanted to look.”

“That’s disgusting. She’s dead.”

“It’s not like I get lots of opportunities.”

“This is just wrong,” Charlie says.

“I’m not doing anything. Just looking.”

Charlie sighs. “We’ll get you a hooker tonight.”

“Really?”

“I suppose we’d better, if our choices are prostitution or necrophilia.”

“What about you?”

“You don’t care about my needs.”

“Of course I do!”

“I’m content to suffer in silence,” Charlie says, in his martyr’s voice. “As always.”

“We could see if the escort agency has a guy for you.”

“We’ve been through this a hundred times. I’m not like you. I can’t just do it. Especially with you lying next to us, laughing.”

“I wouldn’t laugh.”

“You would, and you have. And we got beat up and robbed, if memory serves.”

“He got in a lucky punch,” Carlos says.

“Lots of them, as I recall. But paying men for sex is not my dream scenario, okay?”

“Tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“Your dream scenario.”

“Really?”

“Why not?”

“You’ll laugh.”

“No I won’t.”

“Well, I suppose I wouldn’t mind a nice, quiet evening with a decent guy.”

“What does that mean, exactly?”

“You know, a nice dinner in an elegant restaurant with linen tablecloths and napkins, and candles gracing the table. A handsome, attentive waiter with impeccable taste and washboard abs would personally select our lobsters and prepare them tableside, with brown butter, shallots, pine nuts, and tagliatelle.”

“Tagli-what?”

“It’s a pasta. While waiting, we’d sip a pretentious domestic wine and listen to soft, romantic music. Afterward, if my date is half the man I hope he is, he’d insist I try a flaming dessert, like bananas Foster, or cherries jubilee.”

Charlie’s words hang in the air like a heart-shaped balloon until Carlos says, “Are you shitting me?”

“What do you think, pervert? Now turn us to the left so I can restore Kathy’s wardrobe.”

“And then?”

“Then we need to find her cell phone and call Chris.”

“When we call, I do the talking,” Carlos says.

“Why can’t I ever be Jimmy?”

“Because you don’t sound like a Jimmy. You sound like a friggin’-”

“ Don’t say it! Don’t you dare say that word!” Charlie shouts.

“What I mean is your voice is higher-pitched. I sound more like a hit man.”

“A hit man who can’t shoot.”

“That’s a low blow.”

Charlie frowns. “Yes it was. I’m sorry. I was just pointing out that even though you’re Jimmy the hit man to Chris and the rest of the world, we’re a team.”

“Fine.”

“You need me, I need you.”

“Right. Got it.”

“I have an idea!” Charlie says.

“Great. Yay. Can’t wait to hear it.”

“How about in private, we just say we’re hit twins.”

“Yeah, fine. Whatever.”

“Yeah, fine. Whatever.”