Read Callie's Last Dance (a Donovan Creed Novel) for Free Online Page A

pay grade. I don’t have a pay grade.”
    Preston Mooney rolls his eyes. “It’s a figure of speech,” he says.
    “I don’t really care about the initials,” I say. “But I do want to know what happened to Lou Kelly.”
    Mooney gives me a sour look.
    “I’m told you’re a primitive man,” he says. “But be advised there are parliamentary rules and procedures for conducting a meeting. As long as I’m chairman, we’ll follow those rules.”
    I look at Sherm Phillips, who shakes his head as if to say, “See what I have to deal with every day?”

10.
    “AS THE OTHER members of the committee are aware,” Mooney says, “Lou Kelly accidentally contracted dimethylmercury poisoning.”
    “Accidentally?” I say.
    Sherm Phillips says, “Miles Gundy’s work.”
    I nod. Miles Gundy, now deceased, was a disgruntled corporate chemist-turned-urban terrorist.
    Sherm adds, “The poison was spread by physical contact. Apparently Gundy combined it with a five hour virus.”
    “What about Lou’s girlfriend?”
    “Sherry Cherry?”
    I nod.
    “Dead.”
    Sherry was Rachel Case’s mother. Rachel being my former girlfriend. Current girlfriend, if you’re asking her. Rachel’s being held in an underground bunker in the government facility at Mt. Weather where government scientists are harvesting her eggs.
    But that’s another story for another time.
    “Do you have a final body count?” I ask Sherm.
    Sherm’s answer is interrupted by a banging sound. All eyes turn to Preston Mooney, who has a little circular cylinder of wood on the table that he’s hitting with—I shit you not—a miniature wooden gavel.
    “ Order !” he shouts.
    “Seriously?” I say.
    “Gundy’s total body count was eight hundred sixty,” Sherm says.
    Mooney gives him a withering look.
    “Sorry,” Sherm says.
    Mooney clears his throat. “The reason we sent for you—”
    “I’ll take the job,” I say.
    “Excuse me?” Mooney frowns. “You can’t just come in here and—”
    “Can someone else in here do the job?” I say.
    They look around the table at each other. The short answer is no.
    “Does someone here want the job?” I say.
    They search each other’s faces again.
    I say, “Do you have any outside candidates in mind?”
    Mooney says, “There are a number of gifted people we can transition into the job.”
    “Seriously?”
    He smiles a thin-lipped smile. “Does that surprise you, Mr. Creed?”
    “Yes. And delights me, as well.”
    He frowns. “How so?”
    “I can’t tell you how many things I’d rather do than be head of Sensory Resources.”
    I stand, preparing to leave.
    “Wait. Sit down,” Mooney says. “We haven’t begun the questioning!”
    “With all due respect, I have no interest in being Director of Sensory Resources.”
    “None?”
    “None.”
    “Why?”
    “It’s a shit job.”
    Mooney says, “You were informed by phone you were a candidate?”
    “I was.”
    “But you aren’t interested in the job?”
    “That’s correct.”
    Mooney looks around the table. “Who else has a prospective candidate?”
    Emerson Watkins and Annie Lorber look at each other, but say nothing. I wonder what that’s about.
    Mooney looks at me. “If you don’t want the job, why did you say you’d take it?”
    “I thought you needed me.”
    They look at each other. Some are indignant, others puzzled.
    Annie Lorber says, “Why would you volunteer to do a job you hate?”
    “To protect my country.”
    Director Scott says, “Good answer. You’ve got the job.”
    Mooney says, “He needs to be interviewed first. There are procedures.”
    Senator Scherer says, “Fuck the procedures. He’s got us by the balls.”
    Director Scott says, “There are no other candidates, Preston. You know it, I know it, he knows it.”
    Mooney says, “The committee has spent a great deal of time and effort preparing a list of questions to determine the candidate’s suitability for the job!”
    Sherm says, “Those are your