Locke stopped in his tracks at the doorway.
He knew exactly what Carrie meant by her "Why?"
When he first entered, her first question had been why he wouldn't let her die. He had given his answer then: she wasn't a demon. Demons need to be buried; Carrie wasn't one, so she didn't need to die.
As for this second "Why?" Carrie was asking why Locke cared so much about her.
Locke smiled, turned back to look at the girl on the bed, and opened his mouth as if to say something profound. Then, he simply turned and pushed the door open. "Because you remind me a lot of a sister I once had."
With that, he left.
Of course, this sister wasn't related by blood. She was just a girl from the Texas orphanage who was close to him in age. Unlike Locke, who actively avoided being adopted, she had spent every day praying for a foster family.
Unfortunately, she died. Her situation had been similar to Carrie's, but while Carrie had a paranoid mother, that girl's foster parents had been two pieces of bottom-tier trash—white-trash predators who weren't even human.
Back then, Locke couldn't save her. But this time? He felt he could pull this one back from the edge.
Over the coming days, Dr. Keller's assistants from across the country would arrive to perform a total transformation on Carrie. Once the surgery was finished and a recovery period had passed, she would be given a new name and a fresh start.
It wouldn't be a short process; changing one's entire appearance was a major undertaking. Fortunately, Carrie White's fingerprints and DNA weren't in the police system. Given that her "clone" in Maine was dead and buried, the authorities likely wouldn't bother with a sample. Even if they did, they wouldn't match the real Carrie.
In a way, as long as her face was changed and she had a new set of IDs, Carrie would have a true rebirth. She wouldn't even have to suffer through the process of sanding off her fingerprints like some high-end jewel thieves. That was too painful.
"Dr. Keller."
"...Mr. Peerless."
Locke found Dr. Hans Keller preparing the operating theater. He smiled and shook the doctor's hand. "No need to be so nervous. If it were my face you were changing, I could guarantee you wouldn't survive the procedure."
Cold sweat broke out on Keller's forehead. He might be old, but he wasn't tired of living. In this age of medical marvels, he truly felt that money could buy him more years.
Locke's lips curled upward. "But since this isn't my surgery, I can give you a guarantee: if the surgery is a success, you will leave here alive—provided you keep her secrets as strictly as you do for your other clients."
Keller nodded like a woodpecker. "Of course, of course. That is a given. I will keep everything confidential."
"Every physical and digital record must be destroyed."
"Naturally, without question."
"Thank you." Locke released his hand and nodded. "Then we have no problems. I'll be waiting for good news, Dr. Keller."
The doctor continued to nod frantically. He could afford to be arrogant with jewel thieves because they needed him more than he needed them. Besides, thieves didn't kill people.
But assassins? That was why Keller never liked dealing with the violent underworld. They had zero reverence for life; they'd pull a trigger over a disagreement. Keller didn't even dare to mention a price for this job. If he asked for too much, he might be killed. He had already prepared himself to pay for the materials out of his own pocket just to avoid trouble. Even so, he felt his life hung on the whims of the Peerless Assassin.
'Son of a—!' Keller wanted to curse, but he didn't dare let a single word slip.
Locke saw the expression on Keller's face and chuckled. He didn't say anything else, stepping back into the R8 he had "borrowed" from the roadside and drove away.
Carrie's surgery would be a long, tedious project. He estimated she wouldn't be ready for her new life until after the New Year. But Locke wasn't worried. If anything went wrong, he would sense it; after all, he was the primary supplier of her witchly powers.
Besides, Keller wouldn't bully Carrie. Adults, for the most part, knew the score. They weren't like teenagers, who had no sense of boundaries. In Hollywood movies, it was always high school kids who went looking for trouble in dark, creepy places.
Locke shook his head, putting the matter aside. He had a much more dangerous mission to complete: telling George Stacy that his daughter would be spending New Year's at sea with him.
This was a mission with a high mortality rate—either for Locke or for George. He hoped George would be reasonable. Otherwise... the price of helmets in New York was about to go up.
...
That weekend.
Locke packed his fishing bag and waited outside the Star Tower. After a while, George pulled up in his pickup truck.
As they started driving, Locke raised an eyebrow at the direction. "Aren't we going to New Jersey?"
George shook his head. "No. Long Island. We're going out on the water!"
Locke blinked. WTF? Not the quiet woods? Out at sea? Was this the part where they tried to sink each other in the deep blue? This didn't feel like a good omen.
"There are no fish in that New Jersey pond," George said, his expression stern.
"But last time I caught—"
"No fish!"
"Uh..."
George glanced at Locke. "It wasn't my technique. Understand?"
Locke understood. Over the last few trips to New Jersey, Locke's bag had been full while George had come home empty-handed. George's ego couldn't take it, so he was changing the environment.
Locke frowned. "But I didn't buy a sea-fishing rod."
George allowed himself a small smile as he floored the accelerator. "I bought one."
Locke: "..."
'Gwen, don't worry. If George doesn't agree today, I promise to find you a much more agreeable step-dad.'
New York was full of fishing enthusiasts. Since it bordered the Atlantic, the fish were plentiful, and the local "fishing bros" were obsessive . Some even spent fortunes on specialized yachts.
George, unfortunately, didn't have yacht money. But he did have a small fishing boat—something designed for enthusiasts with a tighter budget.
At the Long Island pier, Locke looked out. Dozens of boats were already on the water, and more people were unloading gear. It was December. Weren't these people cold? Clearly, in the heart of a fisherman, only the lack of fish brings a chill; as long as there's a chance to catch something, their hearts remain warm.
The boat engine roared to life. George, a driver on land and a captain at sea, looked at the expensive sea-fishing rod he'd bought and then at Locke. He felt like he had the upper hand. He had the gear Locke didn't. How could he lose?
Ever since George got hooked on fishing, his results had been... meager. Every weekend when Helen cooked the fish, the name he heard most was "Locke." This "wild boar" trying to steal his prize cabbage didn't know the first thing about sucking up to his father-in-law. Coming home with a full catch while the father-in-law had nothing was not the mark of a qualified suitor.
George was determined to teach Locke a lesson today. And no, he definitely wasn't jealous. Not at all.
Soon, George cut the engine and looked around. "This is a good spot."
Locke surveyed the area. The nearest boat was five hundred meters away. Within that radius, they were alone. "It is a good spot."
If George's reaction to the upcoming conversation was unsatisfactory, Locke figured he could move fast enough to make it look like an accident. After all, plenty of fishermen died from "accidental falls" or "unfortunate slips."
But looking at George busily prepping his gear, Locke sighed internally. He didn't want to go that far. He hoped George would be sensible.
*Swish!* George cast his line into the deep. Locke followed suit, his lure hitting the water ten meters away.
George watched out of the corner of his eye, his lips twitching into a smug curve. "We'll use mine today. You can buy your own next time, though they are quite expensive. Besides, I can't come out every weekend."
Locke looked at him. "I could just buy a yacht and hire a part-time captain for when we want to go out."
George's eyebrow twitched. He'd messed up. He kept remembering the kid was an orphan, but he kept forgetting he was an orphan with a family trust and millions in compensation money. This kid was an "alternative" orphan.
George kept a straight face. "How old are you? What about the future? What if the money runs out?"
'Spending like a madman now—what happens later? You want my daughter sleeping under a bridge with you?'
Locke shrugged. "I still have the family trust. Every year, the dividends..."
He did a quick mental calculation. A conservative estimate for a "contract" was 80k. Twelve months in a year... George's current salary was around 100k.
Locke decided to lowball it to be safe. He looked at George. "Every year, the trust gives me about... 1.2 million."
George: "..."
***
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