I approach the first woman, Mary Valentine.
“Hi Mary, I’m Donovan Creed. This is Miranda Rodriguez and Dr. Eamon Petrovsky.”
Mary is drugged to the max. Her hands are heavily bandaged, and she’s receiving fluids.
She tries to speak, but her words are slurred.
Miranda says, “We’ll check on her and let you know.”
I have no idea what that means. Miranda says, “She asked about her daughter.”
Dr. P. and I exchange a look that indicates he didn’t catch Mary’s question any better than I did.
I continue, “Dr. Petrovsky is the world’s greatest plastic surgeon. He believes he can significantly restore your hands, over time. Dr. P. and I own a surgery center and spa in Las Vegas, Nevada. When you’re able to travel, we’d like to donate our services to you and your daughter, free of charge.”
Mary’s eyes well up. She mumbles something completely incoherent. Dr. P. and I look at Miranda, who says, “Mary is very grateful, but wants to know how long it will take.”
Dr. P. says, “Best case, five years, twenty surgeries.”
Mary mumbles something else. Miranda translates, “What about her baby?”
Dr. P. says, “Don’t expect a miracle.”
More mumbling. Miranda says, “She wants to know if it will hurt.”
“It will be excruciating,” Dr. P. says. “I’m sorry, I wish I had better news.”
Mary would never imagine the total cost of her surgical procedures, medicine, physical and occupational therapy will cost more than three million dollars. Nor would she care, I suspect. Right now she’s in a state of shock. Her attack was so sudden, her situation so horrific. One moment she’s pushing her baby in a stroller at the fair, the next moment her hands are burned practically to the bone. Not to mention her baby’s beautiful face has been ruined forever.
All this happened because she decided to use the free hand sanitizer dispenser at the fair.
As we go from one patient to the next, Dr. P. offers hope, Miranda offers encouragement, and I offer revenge.
Whoever did this is going to pay.
14
Maybe Taylor.
“WHAT DO YOU mean she broke your nose?”
“She smashed my face with her head.”
“How did she manage to get that close to you?”
“I was trying to hold her down on the bed. She became hysterical and started thrashing about. Wait. That didn’t translate properly.”
“No shit it didn’t! So what’s the bottom line, no divorce?”
“The divorce is a certainty. She was upset about something else.”
Maybe knows Sam sucks when it comes to explaining situations where he’s completely innocent. She decides to move the conversation along.
“Are you coming to Vegas or not?”
“My plane lands at two-forty.”
“I’ll call you at three to see where you’re staying.”
“I’ve booked a suite at the Vega Rouge. Just come when you can, call me from the lobby.”
“You feel up to making the trip?”
“No. But I feel up to seeing you.”
15
Donovan Creed.
AFTER LEAVING THE hospital Miranda and I cross the street and enter the hotel quietly. I feel her staring at me.
“Are you okay?” she says.
“I’m good.”
She nods.
We walk down the hall in silence, enter the room, sit on the bed.
She says, “Can we talk about this?”
“Are you sure it’s ethical?” I say, and immediately wish I hadn’t.
She ignores my comment and says, “I know you, Donovan.”
She thinks she knows me. In truth, she knows very little about me.
“This has affected you deeply.”
She’s right about that.
“Look at me,” she says.
I know what she’s going to say. She’s going to tell me I need to clear my head of evil thoughts. She’ll say that giving total strangers more than fifty million dollars worth of free treatment is stunningly generous, and I should reflect on how their lives will be improved because of me. She’ll tell me not to dwell on the bad. She’ll say I need to forgive the person who did these terrible things, and move on with my life.
But when she speaks she says none of those things.
What she says is, “You’re going to catch the bastard that did this. And when you do, you’re going to torture him in the cruelest possible way.”
“Yes.”
Then she says, “You won’t turn him over to the authorities. You’ll make sure he’s dead.”
“Yes.”
“But I need to be there, Donovan. I need to talk to him.”
I look at her. “Why?”
“I need to understand his thought process. I need to know what makes him tick.”
“It’ll make you a better psychologist?”
“I believe it will.”
“Do you want to participate in the torture?”
“No. But I want to watch.”
We stare at each other a moment.
Then we attack.
To put it more accurately, Miranda attacks me. She slaps my face with both hands as hard as she can, over and over, stopping only to fall on her back and rip her blouse open. I take this as a cue to remove the rest of her clothing, which is no easy task while getting the shit slapped out of me.
Now, entering her, I expect the slapping to stop. But it intensifies! Again and again she slaps my face. She eventually makes her hands into fists and flails away at my face. Miranda’s not a skilled fighter, so I lean into her punches to intensify the effect.
When she bloodies my nose and lips she gets excited and starts bucking me. I ride it out as long as I can, which roughly translates to eighty seconds.
