Callie’s Last Dance

48.

DR. GIDEON BOX enters his office so briskly he doesn’t see us sitting on his sofa.

Then he does.

Instead of being startled, he frowns and says, “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m Creed. This is Dr. P. We’ve come for a consult.”

“I don’t do consults unless they’ve been cleared by our advisory board. And how the fuck did you get in here?”

“We walked in,” I say. Then add, “That’s pretty salty language for a pediatrician.”

“Pediatric surgeon,” Dr. P. says, correcting me.

Dr. Box tries to correct me further, saying, “You didn’t just walk in here. We’ve got security.”

“You mean we’re not really here?” I say.

“How about I call security, and let them sort it out,” he says, reaching for the phone.

Before he can press the button to summon security, I’ve crossed the room and ripped the cord from the wall. I notice he’s leaning on his desk, supporting himself with his right hand, fingers outstretched. I grab my knife from the sheaf on my ankle and quickly stab the desk between each of his fingers, one after the other, over and over, increasing my speed with each thrust.

When I stop, he says, “That’s rather dramatic, don’t you think?”

Under the circumstances, him being a world-class surgeon and all, I’d have to say Dr. Box is one cool customer.

“We’ve brought x-rays,” I say. “I need you to take a look and give me your opinion.”

“Fuck off,” he says.

Dr. P. says, “We flew here from Cincinnati to get your opinion about a surgery.”

“Round trip or one way?”

“Private jet.”

“I’m impressed. But the answer’s still no.”

I say, “This patient is very important to me.”

“Why should I care?”

I look at Dr. P. and ask, “Do we really need this guy?”

“I think so. Don’t kill him yet.”

“Who are you guys, really?” Dr. Box says. “Is this some sort of joke? Am I being secretly filmed? You, old guy: you look familiar. Are you guys strippers?”

Dr. P. and I look at each other.

Strippers?

I’m in my early forties, he’s in his late sixties.

“I’ll ask you again, nicely,” I say, trying to sound nice. “I’d appreciate it if you look at these x-rays and MRI films and tell me if you have the ability to perform this operation.”

“Tell you what,” he says. “I’ll thumb-wrestle you for it.”

“Dr. Box,” Dr. P. says. “This is Donovan Creed.”

“So?”

“He’s a government assassin.”

“Doesn’t mean he has thumb strength.”

“He recently crushed the bones in a bouncer’s hand like the man had rickets. He will absolutely break your thumb. If he does, you’re of no use to us.”

“George Washington,” Dr. Box says.

“Huh? What about him?” I say.

Dr. Box reaches his hand into his pocket and pulls out a pecan.

“George Washington’s the only man I’ve ever heard of who had enough thumb strength to crack a pecan.”

“So?”

“If you can do it, I’ll look at your x-rays.”

“Toss it here.”

He does.

I catch the pecan, study it, and frown.

“Something wrong, Mr. Creed?”

“This is made out of lead.”

“In that case I guess we’re through here.”

Dr. P. tosses me his wallet.

“What now?” Dr. Box says.

I remove Dr. P.’s driver’s license and hand it to Dr. Box.

He reads the name out loud. “Dr. Eamon Petrovsky.”

Then looks at Dr. P. and says, “Never heard of you.”

Dr. P. raises his eyebrows.

Dr. Box says, “Just kidding. You’re my hero. Swear to God, I thought you were dead. Show me the films.”

Dr. P. shows him the films and explains Callie’s condition and situation using medical terms I can’t begin to understand.

“What do you think, Doctor?” Dr. P. says.

“Child’s play.”

“Excuse me?” I say.

“This operation is beneath me. You’ll have to get someone else.”

“Are you fucking with me?” I say.

Dr. P. sees I’m losing my temper. He holds up a hand to stop me from doing something I might regret. He says, “Dr. Box, I’m told this is an impossible operation.”

“For a dentist, maybe.”

“No surgeon in the country will touch it.”

“Typical,” he says. “My nurse could successfully perform this operation.”

“Would you do us the honor of giving Callie Carpenter the use of her legs?” Dr. P. says.

“You got a picture of her?”

“Excuse me?”

“Is she hot?”

I take out my cell phone and pull up a picture of Callie.

“Holy shit!” he says.

“Will you perform the operation?” Dr. P. asks.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“The hospital will never approve it.”

“Why?”

“You know why. It’s too risky. There’s not enough upside. Best case? She regains full use of her legs. Worst case? She dies.”

“She’ll take the risk,” I say.

“Of course she will,” Dr. Box says. “But the hospital won’t. If it was a matter of life-and-death, maybe. But it’s not. There’s every reason to believe she could live another ten, twenty years.”

“Ten or twenty? She’s only twenty-six!” I say.

“Don’t worry, she’ll age pretty quickly from here on out.”

“Suppose I can get the hospital’s approval,” I say.

“You’d still need mine,” he says.

“Do you care to keep living?” I say.

“Not really.”

“No?”

“What have I got to live for? I hate my job. I hate people, and they hate me. My girlfriend moved away and I’m about to lose the greatest surgical nurse who ever lived. I’ve…”

“You’ve what?”

He smiles.

“What?”

“You’re Donovan Creed.”

“That’s right.”

“From Las Vegas.”

“You know me?”

“I’ve heard your name before.”

“Where?”

“I’ll tell you another time. Unless you decide to kill me now. Speaking of which, nothing would make me happier than to have you kill me. I’d pay you to kill me.”

“What’re you, insane?”

“Possibly. Or maybe I’m too sane to want to keep living like this.”

“I’ll pay you a hundred million dollars to perform this operation.”

“And if I refuse you’ll kill me?”

“Worse.”

He licks his lips, enthusiastically. “Tell me!”

“I’ll kidnap you, rip off your nuts, sever your spinal cord, and make you spend the rest of your miserable life the way you’re sentencing Callie to live.”

“You’re a rude personality,” he says.

“You’d be wise not to forget that.”

He says, “I actually believe you kill people for money. But you also torture them?”

“Sometimes.”

“Are you any good at it?”

“I excel at torture. Why do you ask?”

“I’ve got a list of people who need to experience pain in their lives. And I’m tired of waiting for them to get sick.”

“I have no idea what that means,” I say, “but it sounds like we’re about to forge an agreement, yes?”

“I hope so.”

Dr. Box isn’t shitting me. He goes to his computer and prints out a list. Twenty-two names with addresses, phone numbers, relatives, and personal notes.

“The people on this list have wronged me,” he says.

“And?”

“I want them tortured.”

“To death?”

“No. But thoroughly.”

He pauses, then says, “And I want to watch.”

Taken aback, Dr. P. says, “What kind of doctor are you?”

“A vengeful one,” he says.