IQ(77)

“Is this Mr. Wright? Mr. Calvin Wright?” A white boy’s voice.

“Yeah, this is Mr. Calvin Wright. Who the f*ck are you and how’d you get this number?”

“My name is Brian Sterling, sir. I’m Dr. Freeman’s executive assistant.”

“’Scuse me?”

“I work for Dr. Freeman. Dr. Russell Freeman?”

“The Dr. Freeman I heard on the radio? The Dr. Freeman that wrote that book?”

“Yes sir, and let me tell you why I’m calling. Your internist, Dr. Macklin, spoke with Dr. Freeman and gave him a detailed report about how you were experiencing severe burnout symptoms. Dr. Freeman was concerned and asked me to call you.”

“Dr. Freeman knows about me?”

“Like I said, sir, Dr. Macklin gave him a full report.”

Cal couldn’t remember giving Dr. Macklin permission to give full reports to anybody, let alone Dr. Freeman, but his memory was shot to shit.

“We understand there’s been a problem utilizing Dr. Freeman’s book.”

“I can’t seem to get the full effect.”

“Sometimes that happens when the case is as complex and critical as yours.”

Calvin was relieved to hear his case was complex and critical. Everybody else thought he was crazy.

“Fortunately, Dr. Freeman had a cancellation,” Brian said, “and there’s an opening in his schedule tomorrow at eleven. Would you be able to come in?”

Cal hesitated. He wanted to see Dr. Freeman but he didn’t get up until two or three in the afternoon and he needed time to prepare himself, get his mind right, get some more Klonopin from DStar. “You got anything next week?” he said.

“I’m afraid not, sir. Dr. Freeman is leaving town on his book tour. Europe, Asia, Germany. He won’t be back until January.”

“That’s my choice, tomorrow or next year?”

“Basically, yes.”

Brian told Cal not to discuss the appointment with anyone, not even his friends. A famous rapper seeing Dr. Freeman would be a headline in the tabloids. Brian also explained that special accommodations had been made for celebrities so they could visit the office unseen, and he went over them twice.

“Aight then,” Cal said, “I’ll see y’all tomorrow.”

“Very good, Mr. Wright,” Brian said. “Dr. Freeman is looking forward to meeting you. He’s a big fan of your music.”


After Skip got off the phone he took the dogshit rake out of the trash can and walked north toward the hill. He turned left at the boulder shaped like a turtle and hopped from one flat rock to another until he reached a pile of boulders no different than hundreds of others. On one side of the pile was a tangle of whitethorn acacia branches, the thorns a half inch long and needle-sharp. Skip raked the branches away, revealing a deep hollow between two boulders. He poked the rake in there to check for snakes and dragged out a waterproof camper trunk. The trunk held guns. They were new and wrapped in plastic. Skip had paid straw buyers to buy them at gun shows in Utah and Arizona where there weren’t any background checks.

There were two assault rifles, a tactical shotgun, a Remington 700 sniper rifle, and a half dozen handguns. Skip chose the Glock 18c. A special gun he’d bought from an associate of Bonnie’s. The 18c was a fully automatic machine pistol and the so-called plastic gun. It was made from a polymer and light as a feather. The Glock’s rate of fire was twelve hundred rounds per minute and it would empty the thirty-three-round clip of multiple-impact bullets in 1.65 seconds. It would be like shooting thirty-three fishing nets and every knot was lethal. Whatever happened, he wasn’t going to miss and when it was over he’d go after the smart-ass and shoot that f*cking Kurt too.

Skip thought he’d get in a little practice. Take Goliath out to the scrub, see if the dog could scare up something to shoot. To make it fair he’d use regular ammo and put the gun on semiauto. Drawing a bead on a zigzagging rabbit got his adrenaline going and shook the rust off his reflexes. When he hit one it twisted and tumbled before crashing into the dirt, Goliath on it in a heartbeat, snarling and shredding, little tufts of fur floating in the desert air.


They were in Dodson’s apartment waiting for The Shonda Simmons Show to come on. It was a nice place, Isaiah thought. Muted creams and beiges, Berber carpet, gentle art on the walls. Cherise must have put it together.

Dodson came out of the kitchen with two espressos and a plate of warm Danish. “You see what I’m doing here?” he said. “It’s called hospitality.”

Shonda Simmons was interviewing Noelle, the promos had been on all week. Isaiah didn’t know why he’d agreed to watch it here or watch it at all. The case was over and done. The failed dognapping was his last option. Maybe he should have swallowed his pride and accepted Bobby’s twenty grand. That was a whole lot better than no grand at all and he would have been that much closer to Flaco’s condo. Now it was out of reach forever. Then there was Skip to deal with. Crazy as he was, he might try to kill Isaiah again but he’d deal with that when the time came.

“Here it is,” Dodson said.

Voluptuous didn’t quite capture Shonda Simmons’s figure. It was more like the number 8 in extra-extra-large. She had an attractive face but her makeup had been applied like mochaccino icing on a chocolate cake, her eyelashes long enough to sweep the floor, her earrings like the chandeliers at Cal’s house.