Callie’s Last Dance

43.

THE NEXT HALF hour’s a blur. Even now, at the hospital, I’m having trouble remembering the exact sequence of events. I remember Callie passed out from loss of blood. I held a towel against her wounds, and called 911. Told the operator there’d been an explosion. Told her Callie’s name, age, physical condition. Gave our location, Winston Parke Hotel, room three-sixteen. She told me to make sure the door was open, said someone would be with us shortly. Had me stay on the line, answer questions about Callie’s condition so the medical team would know what they’re dealing with.

“We’re getting other reports of a bomb detonating,” she said. “They’re preparing to evacuate the building.”

“Any other injuries reported?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Are you hurt, Mr. Creed?”

Was I? It never dawned on me to check.

“No injuries, I’m fine,” I said. “Which tells me it wasn’t a bomb.”

“Apparently it was,” she said.

“It was a gun.”

“A gun? Are you certain?”

“Just a minute.”

I pulled the bed halfway across the floor and looked through the hole in the concrete. It was a mess below us, but I saw a body, half-covered in dust and concrete, and the barrel of a giant handgun.

“Yes,” I said.

“Sir?”

“It was definitely a gun. A handgun.”

“And did you shoot your girlfriend, Mr. Creed?”

She said it in such a matter-of-fact way I almost didn’t catch the question.

“What?”

“Do you have the gun in your possession at this time?” she said.

“The gunshots came from the room below us,” I said. “The guy who shot Callie is lying on the bed in what I assume is room two-sixteen.”

While keeping 911 on the line, I used my cell phone to look up and dial the hotel’s number. When their operator answered, I put the room phone down and asked for the manager. When the manager got on the line I told him not to evacuate the building. Having all the people out front would delay Callie’s medical treatment. I said, “Lock the exit doors, station a guard at each door, and let no one out. You’re looking for a man or woman covered with plaster.”

He said, “Is this a joke?”

I said, “What’s your name?”

“Bruce.”

“Pay attention, Bruce,” I said, “because mine’s the last voice you’ll hear on this earth. Someone fired two very powerful shots below my room. Blew a hole so wide I can actually see the room below us. The rounds went through the ceiling, through my bed frame and struck my girlfriend in the back. She’s seriously hurt. Ambulance on the way. The guy who fired the shots is dead. I can see him through the hole in the floor. If anyone was with him they’ll be covered in plaster dust.”

“First of all, you didn’t move your bed,” Bruce said. “Our beds are bolted to the floor.”

“Do tell.”

“Second, we’ve got a full-blown panic down here,” Bruce said. “We don’t have the personnel to station people at the doors, or the authority to hold our guests against their will.”

“What type of security force do you have?” I asked.

“I’m not going to answer that question, since I don’t know who you are. But the police have been called, and the sound you’re about to hear will be us evacuating the building.”

“No matter. It was probably one man, acting alone. And he’s dead in the room below us. Here’s what I want you to do, Bruce. Go ahead and keep the doors unlocked. But lock an elevator for the private use of the medical team that’s on the way.”

“What did you say your name was?” Bruce asked.

“Donovan Creed.”

“Well, as we were speaking, I pulled the room record for three-sixteen. That room is registered to a Ms. Callie Carpenter. So it isn’t “your” room, is it, Mr. Creed? In fact-”

“Don’t even think about fucking with me, Bruce,” I said, then noticed Callie had regained consciousness. She spoke in a voice so weak the only word I heard was “Donovan!”

I leaned closer. She coughed and gasped out some words.

What she said was, “I can’t feel my legs.”

I hung up on Bruce, picked the room phone back up, asked the 911 operator what was taking them so long. She demanded I stay on the phone with her, so I did, but used my cell to call my geeks. I told them what happened, and asked them to arrange a private jet to fly Dr. P. from Las Vegas to Cincinnati. Then I called Dr. P., told him where to meet the jet, and asked him what I could do to help Callie till the medics showed up. He asked me some questions about her condition, like, “is there an exit wound on her chest?”

“No.”

“How’s her breathing?”

“Shallow.”

“Any blood or foam in the mouth?”

“No.”

– That sort of stuff. Then he told me to run my fingernail across the bottom of her foot and see if she could feel it. But by then, Callie was dead.