A tear trickles down her cheek.
“We’ve got a plan.”
“If it involves kickboxing, you’ll have to start without me,” she says, forcing a weak smile.
“We’re taking you to Sensory as soon as you’re stable enough for MedEvac.”
“Why?”
“We found a doctor who might be able to get you on your feet again.”
Her eyes light up. “No shit?”
“No shit.”
She sees Dr. P. standing behind me.
“Who’s your boyfriend?”
“Dr. Petrovsky.”
Callie frowns. “You’re still palling around with Darwin?”
Dr. P. looks around, nervously. “Please, my dear,” he says. “Let’s refrain from using the D word.”
“You trust him?” she says.
“Sometimes.”
“Is this one of those times?”
“Yes.”
“What do you need me to do?”
“Rest. Enjoy the drugs. But get stronger.”
“You want me to multi-task at a time like this? Good thing I’m a woman.”
“Why’s that?”
“Women are better multi-taskers than men.”
“Bullshit.”
“You disagree?” she says.
“Of course. Men can have sex and a headache at the same time.”
“The headache is an excuse. We say that when we don’t want to have sex. You didn’t know?”
“Doesn’t matter. You’ve still proven me right.”
She arches an eyebrow. “How so?”
“Men don’t have to have sex, but when it’s available, we don’t want to leave it on the table. So if we’ve got a headache, or if there’s a ball game on in the next room we can deal with the headache, listen to the game, and have sex, all at the same time. We’re the ultimate multi-taskers.”
“When it comes to sex.”
“And football. And eating.”
“I can’t think of three things less important to a happy life.”
“You just need the right dinner, the right team, and the right sexual partner.”
“Any suggestions?”
She gives me her come-hither look.
I smile and give her a kiss.
She says, “You owe me a dance. Even if I’m in a wheelchair.”
“At Sal’s party you danced alone. I let you down.”
“I agree. So how do you plan to make it up to me?”
“By doing everything in my power to help you regain the full use of your dancing legs.”
“And if I do?”
“You’ll never dance alone again.”
“Say it better.”
“From now on I’ll dance with you every time you ask.”
“For the rest of your life?”
I nod.
She laughs.
“What?”
“You
“But I love you.”
“I appreciate your love. But don’t start wearing a dress, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Now quit hanging around,” she says. “Go fetch my doctor!”
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.
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.”
