The Unstable One: A Murphy Thriller Book 1 (Markus Murphy)

by Mike McCrary

  “Perhaps your next visit. We can make the reservation today if you like.”

  “What about dining options? Spots for a cocktail?” Murphy notes the time on his phone. The sun will go down soon. Better odds of finding Pruitt and/or Brubaker at dinner or drinks.

  “Oh, we have some magnificent options for you to choose from.”

  “No, where do those special people graze? The ones at the pool beyond the wall.”

  “Mr. Howard.” Murphy almost forgot that he checked in under the name Howard. The thin, delicate man parses his lips. “Those are considered some of the finest dining establishments in the world. They are booked months, in some cases, a year in advance and—”

  “Really? No way to find a seat on short notice?” Murphy produces a roll of Iraqi dinar for the thin, delicate man to see. A solid half an inch of currency.

  “Table for one.” Murphy looks him over. “Find a place for a special bitch like Mr. Howard?”

  “Of course, Mr. Howard.” The thin, delicate man snatches the wad with a smile as wide as the sun. “I’ll send someone to escort you.”

  “No need, my man,” Murphy says. “Tell me where to go, what time, and point me to a bar that’s not too far.”

  Chapter 21

  The joint is slick if nothing else.

  Open-air dining with candles that hover above the center of white tablecloth tables. First time Murphy has seen tiny drones used for candleholders, but it is pretty cool. The sun is still out but fading fast. Just enough darkness to keep the temperature cool and the atmosphere even cooler. Everything is in its right place. Various forks and spoons located properly. Wine and water glasses positioned to catch the flickers of the flames that hover slightly above them.

  Wasn’t easy to find this place.

  It amazes Murphy how they can hide an entire restaurant, but they did. Nothing signals that this place is here or how to get here. The thin, delicate man from the hotel gave him directions while checking over his shoulder every couple of seconds. Murphy felt he was putting on a bit of a show.

  No way in hell he’s never taken a taste to let someone in this place.

  Murphy stopped by a shop that caught his eye on the way into the hotel. A high-end men’s clothing store with some fine threads showcased in the window. He thought he needed to get dolled up for the evening. Look the part. The thin, delicate man also mentioned there was an event of sorts going on this evening. Actually, it was something the resort puts on from time to time. Special menu with extra sexy staff and the resort overpays the hell out of a global music sensation to come play a set or two while the elite stuff their faces.

  Murphy loves the hell out of a good suit.

  Gray pinstripes, white shirt, pink tie and black shoes that shine like mirrors. He also has a tactical blade secured behind his back. Really misses his Glock right now.

  Longs for the green lights lit up from firearm recognition. Fear is absent, at the moment, but Murphy has seen a brief preview of what Brubaker is capable of and would rather not walk into a potential showdown without a gun.

  Oh well.

  The crowd is thin but growing.

  Global elite, and Murphy, gathering under the stars. Murphy has taken a seat at the corner of the bar near the entrance. Perfect vantage point for overlooking the tables and the people coming and going. Sipping his whiskey, scanning the area, he begins to question his plan. Gnawing questions he’d rather not consider.

  What if Pruitt has other plans this evening?

  What if Brubaker has already killed him and fled the country?

  He tells himself again the timing on her bouncing out of Baghdad would be a challenge. But still not impossible. Has to trust his gut with this. There was no way the resort would give up Pruitt’s room number, and hacking the system wasn’t realistic given the time constraints and the high risk of an international incident if discovered. Yes, this is the best option he’s got for a hunting ground.

  Mr. Nice Guy is nervous.

  Murphy tells him to let the other nut drop and shut the hell up.

  Another sip of whiskey.

  He checks his phone. Not long until this scheduled call with his mother is going down. Murphy has no idea what to expect from the conversation. Only knows that at least a part of him doesn’t want to have it.

  Thompson didn’t want him to talk to her either—why?

  Questions stack, climbing over the top of one another.

  Doubt creeps in. An unwanted gift from Mr. Nice Guy, Murphy assumes. Doubt is for other people. Those people. Not for Markus Murphy. Crazy fills in the holes doubt creates.

  Murphy drinks to that.

  Drinks to crazy over doubt.

  “Right this way, Mr. Pruitt.”

  Murphy fights the urge to spin around. As he casually turns, he sees Eryk Pruitt move across the turf-like grass being led toward a table for two. One of the best—if not the best table—in the place. Close to the stage, but far enough to enjoy the evening. He’s alone, dressed in a casual suit that looks past its prime. Cheap looking by design, but far from it. Curated, high-priced retro.

  He’s in his late thirties with a shaved head, glasses and appears to be in good shape. Doesn’t seem the type who has to pay for top-dollar entertainment, but Murphy isn’t one to judge. He seems to favor his right side. Murphy takes note. He doesn’t expect getting into a physical altercation with Pruitt, but again, anything is possible and knowing he’s right-handed might be helpful. Pruitt takes his seat with the hovering candlelight creating a glow to his face.

  Murphy gets up from his seat at the bar.

  Might not get another, or a better, chance to talk to Pruitt. A chance to find out what he knows about the hedge fund house. About a prostitute who might desire causing him great harm.

  Pruitt turns toward the bar. His eyes dead on Murphy.

  Murphy stops, holds his breath. Has he made me?

  “Whiskey,” a woman’s voice says.

  Murphy turns.

  A woman with dark hair with the tips colored purple takes a seat a few chairs down from him. Colorful tats cover her arms. Flowers and thorns mixed with interesting shapes and the large face of a gray wolf on her shoulder. She wears a black dress like a weapon. Gorgeous, terrifying, and the someone who could possibly save or end Murphy’s life. He can’t help but stare—for multiple reasons.

  He exhales, fighting to find cool.

  She locks in on his eyes. Her expression like a stone. A hard and angry stare lasting longer than Murphy would like. His brain scrambles for ways to break the wire-tight tension. A violent awkwardness. Her death stare matches what he saw in the video. Before he can get out a single word, her hardness softens without warning. Eyes show a flash of light as her expression melts into a smile.

  “Enjoying the view?” she asks with some sass. “Not free.”

  Murphy raises his glass. He didn’t run this as a probable scenario.

  “Penthouse five, Royal level.” He smiles. Burning on pure instinct. “The suit is new so, ya know, use the gentle cycle.”

  “Get in line, Big Fun.” Lady Brubaker snickers, slipping away with her drink.

  Pruitt stands from his table as she walks in his direction. Part of Murphy thinks he should warn him. Thinks he should stop her. Prevent whatever horrific act she’s planning with that poor, insanely wealthy bastard.

  “Not the sort to wait in line, gorgeous,” Murphy says.

  She stops, turning his way. “You don’t say.”

  “A lot of pretty ladies around here.” He taps a money wad that could choke an elephant. “I mean look at me. This suit. This face. This cash. Lonely is not in my future.”

  She considers.

  “Going once…” He strokes the cash.

  She eyes the money.

  “See you soon,” she says with syrup. “Might get dirty on that Royal level.”

  Murphy tips his glass to her as she walks away. His heart pounds while his fumbling insides fight to be cool. Both sides of him
buzz with a mix of excitement and terror.

  Pruitt pulls out a chair for her.

  She lets out a schoolgirl giggle, throwing him a soul-melting smile as she slides into her chair. Murphy searches deep. Working to uncover some mental middle ground within himself. He should stop her. Working through the moral math, he resets.

  Pruitt is a dead man.

  Lady Brubaker is Murphy’s target.

  A target, that if handled properly, could save many, many other lives including his own. Murphy downs his drink, celebrating the emotional growth achieved.

  His jacket vibrates. Murphy pulls out the phone.

  Mother is calling.

  Shit.

  Chapter 22

  Murphy said “Hello” to his mother ten minutes ago.

  Feels like hours have limped by.

  Since this call began, she’s coughed twice, grunted once.

  He can tell she’s still on the line because the sounds of prison-crazy ramble and rage in the background. Some woman offered a full-throated wail about cutting another woman’s tits off. There have been various random shouts echoing similar thoughts and sentiments. Another sign that the call is still in progress is the sound of her labored breathing. The sounds of a lifelong smoker stress the phone’s speaker. Murphy closes his eyes off the wheezing.

  A loud clang from her end of the call shakes him from his trance. More bodily harm threat barked, then more struggling breaths. Murphy doesn’t know how much more of it he has to endure.

  This is a game she’s playing.

  He knows it.

  The game of control.

  Give her time, Mr. Nice Guy chimes in.

  Entering the lobby of the resort en route to the elevator, Murphy still waits for her to speak her first words. She doesn’t have to speak until she wants to; he knows that too. He can’t make her talk. The thing, the only thing, working in his favor is that there’s no way in hell she has unlimited phone privileges. She has to crack open a can of conversation soon.

  It’s also a fair assumption that every word of this call is being monitored, recorded and analyzed to the nth damn degree.

  You happy, Mr. Nice Guy?

  This the quality family time you seek?

  His devil tattoo itches. Warmth spreads up through his arm. A reversal in Murphy’s thinking takes hold. A switch flipped. Peyton is working her magic. She knew when this call was happening too.

  Does she want more Mr. Nice Guy than Murphy?

  Fifty percent Murphy the proper mix?

  He imagines Dr. Peyton sitting sipping a hot cup of tea, balancing his brain as if pulling together a grocery list. Something inside of him takes over. Finding words becomes easier. Wanting to say words to his mother becomes easier. He envisions Peyton sliding her fingers along the glass. Altering his chemistry as he speaks.

  “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, Barbara.” A warm tone he didn’t realize he had to offer. He didn’t know her name seconds ago, but it fell from his tongue as if he talked to her yesterday. “I only wanted to reach out. Let you know I’m thinking of you.”

  “You are a piece of shit.” Her voice is raspy, thick with a southern drawl.

  “Pardon?”

  “How goddamn dare you.”

  “Okay. Not sure what you’re—”

  “I’m locked up in this piss-pit because of you. And now you’re doing what? Out there nailing strange ass and killing at will?” She hacks up a lung. “This what you want, Mr. Fancy Balls? Call me up? Tell Mommy all about it? Have ourselves super sweet bullshit convo, you deviant little asshole.”

  Murphy—Mr. Nice Guy—takes a beat. Hopes that wave has ended.

  “Locked up because of me?” He braces for the answer. Wanting to know more.

  “Oh, stop that shit.”

  “Just need—”

  “Please cease with whatever game you’re playing.”

  “No, please. No game. I don’t have time to explain it all, but I don’t remember.” Murphy enters the elevator, letting it scan his eyes for identification. “Why are you there? Is it because of something I did to you?”

  “You’ve got some set of grapes don’t you, boy? Didn’t get those from your daddy, that’s for goddamn sure. That pansy-ass had a sack of toddler nuts.”

  “Barbara—”

  “And what’s with all this Barbara bullshit? I’m your mother for fuck’s sake.”

  “Sorry… Mom. What happened?”

  There’s a long pause.

  “Mother.” Hacks again. A prison scream in the background. “You call me Mother. That’s the thing. Always has been.”

  “Okay.” Murphy sucks in a deep breath through clinched teeth. “Mother. Please tell me what happened.”

  “You best not be dicking me around with this not remembering shit.”

  “I’m not. Please talk to me.”

  “Better be playing it straight, boy.”

  “I am.” An uncontrollable surge inside of Murphy rips. Blows past Mr. Nice Guy like he was standing still. “Talk to me, you whacko fucking whacko.”

  Another stretched pause.

  Deep sigh from someone who has nothing to lose.

  “Fine. Don’t yell at me,” she says. “I needed some help, that’s all. Was having a little money problem, just like everybody does from time to time, and I brought you a job. A simple little bang-bang thing. Should have been nothing for a badass like yourself. It tilted a wee bit sideways, and you went fifty shades of apeshit.”

  The elevator beeps.

  The doors opened a while ago. Murphy doesn’t remember holding them open.

  Heading down the hall, he walks toward penthouse number five pressing the phone tighter to his ear. As if trying to push it into his brain to gain a better understanding.

  “You got that look you get sometimes. All in your eyes,” she continues. “You snapped, like you did as a child. Got all kinds of dicked up."

  “What was the job?” he asks as the door scans him in.

  “This don’t make any kind of goddamn sense, boy. You call me out of the blue, haven’t talked to you since God knows when, and now you’re asking dumbass questions about that?”

  “Barbara… Mom…”

  “No, no. This ain’t right. Can smell your bullshit from here.”

  “Please, Mother. Don’t shut down on me.”

  More silence.

  A cough, then the call goes quiet. Nothing but dead prison air on the other end of the phone. Murphy paces back and forth in the hotel suite. He can still hear the sounds of her world in the background. Can still hear the hard work it takes for her to breathe. He fights the urge to press her. To pull a conversation out of her. The desire to scream at her is unbearable, almost too much to hold back. The rage swells. Brand of rage that only comes from childhood. Mr. Nice Guy knows all about childhoods that break you.

  He wants a turn. Mr. Nice Guy wants another try at her.

  “Mother?”

  She says nothing. The grinding quiet continues.

  Murphy grabs the bottle of whiskey Agent Heart Eater packed for him then heads into the bathroom. He’s lost track of the time and his potential date with Lady Brubaker could be any minute.

  Mr. Nice Guy needs to go away.

  He needs to leave and come back some other day. Murphy’s arriving guest does not seem like the patient sort. Unfortunately, Mr. Nice Guy is still here. Taking center stage in his mind and deeply wanting to connect with Murphy’s dear, sweet mother.

  Seek to understand.

  “We can talk about anything. Tell me how you are. Talk to me about anything you want. I’m a blank slate here. I want to reset. Start over. Can we try that?” He considers his words. “I’m sorry. Sorry for what I did.”

  Nothing.

  Mr. Nice Guy feels horrible for something he had nothing to do with, while Murphy is considering blowing both his brains out. Murphy is drained. Exhausted. He can tell another shift is on the way. His chemistry is changing.

 
The silence drags for days.

  She coughs. She grunts.

  “When in the hell did you become such a pussy?” she asks.

  “Okay. Fine, Barbara.” He swallows back the urge to remove her head.

  “If you can’t muster the word Mother, so help me.”

  “Sorry, Mother. Need some time calling you that, okay?” Grips the phone, knuckles popping.

  “Not too much to ask, is it?”

  “No. Got it.” He rubs his face. Shuts his eyes in self-defense. Murphy takes back control. “Look, Mother, I’ve got to go. Have a meeting, but we’ll talk again soon.”

  “Soon?” She cough-chirps. “Soon—”

  Tapping a merciful end to the call, he sets his phone down on a towel. Glancing to the mirror, he studies himself. Sees how tired he truly is. Resembles a match that’s been snuffed out.

  Calls with Mother are like that.

  Murphy rubs his neck where his head and spine collide. The war in his skull wages on. A conflict that started in New York and has no foreseeable end to the hostilities. One he didn’t start. He’s also finding a real feel for the pain and the various levels it offers.

  Dead might be better.

  Murphy bounces this idea off the walls of his mind. Probably best he doesn’t have a gun right now.

  Dead could be better than this.

  This. This is like the worst hangover after the best night. Murphy would, however, prefer the sloppy joy that comes along with this feeling. This rumble in his brain is happening more and more. Happening with more unsolicited intensity.

  They said it would get better.

  They said a lot of shit.

  Chapter 23

  Murphy swipes his fingers in the air, turning on the sink.

  Water falls like focused rain from an unseen spout under the mirror. He lets it run, wants to get the water nice and cool. The sound is soothing. A large dose of soothing is needed right now.

  A dull pain in his head mounts.

  He fills a glass, chugs it, then fills it again before swiping off the water. The bathroom is so quiet it hums.

  The pain amplifies.

  Grinding his teeth, he spreads his fingers out on the bathroom counter. Palms flat, the webbing of his fingers stretched wide. His fingertips and palms feel the smooth stone mixed with tiny, rough imperfections. Hopes the coolness of the hotel’s polished concrete will offer some comfort.