Action Figures - Issue Three: Pasts Imperfect

by Michael Bailey

  “Okay.”

  “There’s a wall safe in my office, behind my wedding portrait,” Dr. Hamill says. “The combination is your birth date, reversed. Inside you’ll find an external hard drive with a red casing. I need you to bring it to me.”

  “Bring it to you? What, you mean now?”

  “Yes, I need it right away. Call a taxi to bring you to the train station if you need to. I’ll be in my office. You remember where it is?”

  Missy sighs. “The Genetics Research Center on Harrison, top floor, northwest wing, corner office,” she says mechanically, as though reciting information she’d been forced to memorize (which, knowing Dr. Hamill, is almost certainly the case).

  “Thank you, Missy. I’ll see you in a little while.” After a pause, Dr. Hamill swallows audibly. “I love you.”

  “Uh-huh,” Missy says, hanging up with an annoyed sputter. “Great. Totally wanted to spend my night on the stupid T running errands for Dad. Lots more fun than hanging out with you guys.”

  “Sorry,” Sara says. “You want us to go with you?”

  “No, no reason to ruin your night, too,” Missy says. We reiterate the offer but Missy turns us down, unwilling to relinquish any of the burden, noble little Muppet that she is, so we head out and, after calling Stuart to bring him up to speed, decide that we might as well call it a night.

  “Not exactly a great way to end the day, but hardly a disaster. All stressed up and no place to go,” Sara says.

  “Seriously,” I say with a mix of relief and chagrin. Okay, so, lesson learned: Don’t listen to my instincts. They don’t know squat.

  SEVENTEEN

  The bus slows to a halt, its brakes hissing. Missy disembarks and re-checks her phone. Her Google Maps app blazes the trail for final leg of her journey — a short final leg, mercifully; a cold wind greets her as she rounds the corner onto Harrison Avenue, cutting through her winter coat and the layers beneath. Missy hugs herself in a futile attempt to hold the chill at bay, wincing as her father’s hard drive, tucked in an inside pocket, jabs her in the side.

  Stupid ribs. Heal faster, she thinks.

  The college’s Genetics Research Center eases into view, like a child stealing a peek around a corner, as Missy passes Boston Medical Center at a brisk walk. The center glows from within, its interior lights shining vibrantly through a façade more glass than stonework, and Missy has to admit: It’s an impressive building. A memory springs up unbidden, of her father coming home — when was it? Two years ago? — to announce that the construction phase was at last wrapping up, and his research team would soon be able to move into the new center. He was genuinely excited about the prospect, excited to the point of smiling — a rare sight in the Hamill home, a sight that gave Missy hope she herself would one day give her father cause to again smile like that.

  That hope remains, but it is no longer so strong.

  Missy enters the complex’s foyer, which reminds her more of a fancy hotel lobby than a building dedicated to higher learning. She glances around, expecting to see a security desk somewhere, someplace to check in, but the foyer — the entire building — seems to be empty; Missy’s preternatural hearing picks up the whisper of the HVAC system and that weird, almost subliminal hum electronics give out, but no voices, no hint of movement.

  She trots up the central staircase, an open spiral that gives her a clear view of each level. The hallways within view are well-lit, yet feel somehow dim for their emptiness.

  Missy reaches the top floor, pauses to orient herself, then heads for her father’s office. The hallway is lined with sturdy wooden doors, each accompanied by a nameplate identifying its occupant and his or her role in the scheme of the genetics department. The titles become ever more impressive with each new door, and thus lend an added air of importance to the final nameplate: DR. K. HAMILL – DIRECTOR – GENETIC RESEARCH.

  She knocks. Always knock, never just walk in on Daddy when he’s working.

  Or ever.

  “Yes?”

  “Daddy, it’s me.”

  “...Yes. Come in.”

  Missy digs the hard drive out of her pocket and enters, hesitating in the doorway upon realizing that her father is not alone. He looks at her impassively, yet she senses a strange tension in his posture, the way his hands are clenched together atop his massive desk.

  “Missy, hello,” Dr. Hamill says, his monotone flatter than usual. He nods at the girl sitting across the desk from him. “This is one of my students. I’m...assisting her with a project.”

  The girl twists in her seat. Missy cannot stop herself from gasping. The girl in turn squints at Missy quizzically.

  “Do I know you?” Buzzkill Joy says.

  Missy responds with a snap-kick that dislodges two molars.

  Joy reels from the blow and collapses into the desk. Dr. Hamill flings himself out of his chair and presses into a corner as Missy pounces, claws bared. The impact knocks the desk several inches out of place.

  “Daddy, RUN!” Missy shrieks, but the plea goes unheeded as raw terror seizes Dr. Hamill, freezing his limbs.

  Joy throws a blind jab. Pure luck guides her fist into the wounds she herself inflicted on Missy days earlier. Missy cries out and staggers back, giving Joy ample room to deliver a crushing flying tackle that carries them out into the hall.

  Their screeches, eerily catlike, fill the building as they trade punches, kicks, slashes. Joy rakes at Missy’s face. Missy ducks, but too late to avoid the attack entirely; she feels lines of wet fire open high on her forehead. A kick to the chest throws Missy onto her back, leaving her too dazed to stop Joy from sitting on her abdomen. Joy drives her knees into Missy’s arms, pinning them in place.

  “Hey, cupcake,” Joy says, spitting blood at the floor by Missy’s head. “Didn’t recognize you without your cool ninja PJs.”

  Missy hurls a curse at Joy, who cuts off any further backtalk by closing a hand around Missy’s throat.

  “Girl, I got no time for your mouth,” Joy growls, extending her claws to add weight to her admonition. “I want that hard drive. Give it to me and you and your professor daddy get to walk out of here.”

  “You’re lying,” Missy croaks.

  “Yeah, maybe, but you don’t have a choice, do you?”

  She does have a choice, one that might save her life, but the cost...

  “Let her go.” Missy twists her head to see her father standing in the doorway, ashen and bathed in a cold sweat. He stoops to retrieve the fallen hard drive, then holds it out to Joy with a trembling hand. “Here. Take it and go, but please, leave her alone.”

  “Bring it to me. Slowly,” Joy says, squeezing Missy’s throat to coax a whimper.

  Dr. Hamill inches into the hall, one hand remaining against the wall for support. Missy tries to call out, to warn her father off. Joy tightens her grip in response. The world spins, the lights seem to dim, and her pulse thunders behind her eyes.

  “Please don’t hurt us,” Dr. Hamill pleads.

  “I won’t,” Joy says, and even as the world fades to gray, Missy can sense the lie in her promise.

  The dark thing inside Missy, the monster that is always whispering in her ear and fighting for release, it starts to surface. It wants out. It wants blood.

  No. Not today.

  Missy jerks her legs up, driving her knees into Joy’s kidneys. The impact throws Joy off-balance, relieving the weight on Missy’s torso. Missy pulls an arm free and grasps the hand at her throat, sinking her claws deep. She twists it off, then reaches for Joy’s face, claws bared. Joy screams.

  Joy stumbles to her feet, a stream of profanity pouring out of her. Missy flips onto her hands and knees, every muscle tensing as she crouches low. A growl, thick with fury, rumbles deep in her throat.

  Dr. Hamill utters a horrified moan at what he beholds: His daughter, poised to strike like some impossible animal teetering on the edge of a feeding frenzy, her dark eyes stark against the mask of blood flowing down her face.

  “O
h my God,” Dr. Hamill says. “What have I done to you?”

  “Same thing you did to me, you bastard,” Joy says.

  Her hand flashes. Dr. Hamill drops the hard drive, bringing his hands up to his throat. He swoons, and something warm oozes through his fingers.

  “DADDY!”

  “Huh...isn’t this familiar?” Joy taunts. “So what’s it going to be, cupcake? Him or me?”

  She doesn’t wait for the answer; Joy snatches up the hard drive and sprints away, leaving Missy to catch her father as his legs give out from beneath him, and the world vanishes in an all-engulfing fog of darkness.

  A raspy voice yelling “FIRE!” and a blast of cannonfire jolts me awake. Mental note: Change Stuart’s ringtone from “For Those About to Rock, We Salute You” to something less jarring.

  As I reach for my phone, I catch sight of my alarm clock: 11:04 PM, well past when the gang turns in for the night.

  Something’s wrong.

  “Stuart, what is it?” I say, hoping and praying I’m being a panicky idiot and everything is fine, just fine, but no, the way Stuart clears his throat before speaking tells me the universe isn’t going to let me off that easy.

  “I just got a call from Missy. She’s in the hospital,” Stuart says, and before I can officially freak out, he jumps in to assure me “she’s okay, mostly, but her dad...”

  Stuart lets it hang there for a few seconds. I can’t bring myself to ask what happened.

  “He’s bad,” Stuart says, and the next part hits me like a dropkick to the stomach. “She said he might not survive the night.”

  I fumble over a thousand different questions before remembering how our night ended, with Missy grabbing something to bring to her father at work. “Stuart, did Missy tell you what happened?”

  “She said that girl attacked them, the one from the jailbreak. Killjoy?”

  “Buzzkill Joy?”

  “Yeah, her.”

  What the huh? That doesn’t make any sense at all. There’s no way Buzzkill Joy could’ve found out Missy was the one who beat her up at the courthouse — but why else would Joy show up at Dr. Hamill’s office, if not to lure Missy into an ambush? On the other hand, Joy was totally in the wind; why would she risk getting caught just to take a cheap shot at revenge?

  “Missy’s a mess,” Stuart says, bringing me back to the here and now, “and Mom and Dad won’t drive me up to the hospital. She’s at Boston Medical Center. Could you fly up?”

  “Yeah, I can — no, crap, I can’t,” I say. “Concorde grounded me, remember?”

  “Oh, for — come on, Carrie, Concorde’s not going to have you arrested for flying.”

  “I think he’d have me arrested for jumping too high without his permission.”

  “But this is an emergency!”

  “I don’t think Concorde would — look, I’ll see if Mom or Granddad will drive me up, but I can’t make any promises. I’ll try my best, okay?”

  “Okay,” Stuart mutters, but he’s obviously not happy with my answer. “Thanks,” he says, hanging up.

  I throw on jeans and a T-shirt, and as I make my way to Mom’s bedroom, I quickly rehearse a short but utterly compelling argument why she should get out of bed and drive me to Boston. Should be cake, right? She’ll understand this is a crisis and, bonus, she really likes Missy. Sure, this’ll be a slam-dunk, no worri—

  Oh God, no. No no no don’t listen walk away walk away fast don’t listen don’t listen!

  I back away from the bedroom door and race back to my room, doubled over from sudden nausea that threatens to eject my dinner onto the floor. Breathe, Carrie, slow breaths, in and out, in and out, in and — no, stupid brain, don’t go there!

  Dammit all, Ben, I was starting to like you, too.

  It takes a few minutes for my stomach to settle well enough for me to straighten up and, my hands clamped tightly over my ears, cross the hall to rouse Granddad. I wonder how effectively I’ll be able to knock with my elbows?

  Nuts, looks like it’s a moot point; Grandad’s bedroom door is open and his bed is empty, though recently slept in. I head downstairs and poke my head out the front door, but there’s no sign of him on the porch and his car is gone. I’m stuck here.

  Great.

  Robbed of options, I fire up my iPod to drown out the, ahem, disturbance, and turn on my laptop so I can do a little reading on Buzzkill Joy.

  I find plenty of news articles online. Holy crap is this girl sick. Joyce Morana, a Roxbury native, for reasons unknown (due to her refusal to answer investigators’ questions) walked into her high school one day and, with her bare hands, ripped open her principal’s throat. She repeated her performance six times, murdering assorted students and school personnel. A police sniper missed a headshot and plugged Joy in the shoulder, which put her down long enough for police to charge the school and arrest her. Joy’s been sitting in Byrne ever since, awaiting trial as an adult on seven counts of first-degree murder.

  My waking nightmare ends sometime after midnight (seriously, Mom?), so I pull out the earbuds and try to get some sleep, but it’s no use. I toss and turn until my alarm goes off, at which point I throw on my jeans and T-shirt, grab my jacket, and get the hell out of Dodge, because I have no faith in my ability to look either Mom or Ben in the eye without puking up my entire intestinal tract.

  Hey, Sara, I call out mentally. You up?

  Yeah, what’s up? she responds. Are you okay? You’re wicked tense.

  Oh, God, where do I begin? I say. I should probably lead with the important news of the day, but I wait until I get to Sara’s before I drop that particular bombshell. She deserves to hear it in person.

  “Oh my God,” Sara gasps when I tell her. “Have you heard anything else?”

  “No, I haven’t talked to Stuart since last night,” I say. Sara throws on a coat and, as we head out, pulls out her phone to call Stuart, but he’s not picking up.

  We quicken our pace, hoping to intercept Stuart before we have to head in for another day of academic drudgery. We plant ourselves on a bench outside the main entrance and huddle against the weather, which has taken a turn for the colder; if I didn’t know better, I’d swear it was January again (thanks a lot, New England).

  Stuart shows up a few minutes later. The dark circles under his eyes rival mine. Sara runs up to him and throws her arms around his neck. He responds with a listless pat on the back.

  “Have you talked to Missy since last night?” Sara says. Stuart shakes his head.

  “I was up all night waiting for her to call me but she never did.” He shrugs. “I guess that’s good. Means Dr. Hamill didn’t die, right? Still would’ve been nice to have an inside man,” he says, shooting me the hairy eyeball.

  “I told you, I couldn’t fly to the hospital without Concorde coming down on me,” I protest.

  “What about your Mom? You said she’d drive you up.”

  “No, I said I’d ask her to drive me up.”

  “Did you?”

  “...I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  I fight off an unwanted audio flashback. “Because reasons,” I say with a grimace.

  “Jeez, one of your best friends, and you couldn’t even —”

  “Hold on,” Sara says, “why didn’t your parents drive you up if it was so important?”

  “I asked them to,” Stuart argues, “which is more than she did.”

  “Who’s driving who where?” Matt says as he joins us.

  “Didn’t you tell him?” I say to Stuart.

  “Tell me what?”

  I lower my voice. “Buzzkill Joy attacked Missy and her dad last night. Dr. Hamill’s in really bad shape. As far as we know, they’ve both been in the hospital all night.”

  “What? Why didn’t anyone call me?”

  “Because you’re a mess, man,” Stuart says, “you didn’t need me dumping more crap on you.”

  “You should have called me! Missy’s my friend too, you know,” Matt says, “and wha
t the hell do you mean, I’m a mess?”

  “Dude, I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “Then how did you mean it?”

  “God, why do you have to overreact to everything?”

  “Overreacting?” Sara interjects. “Something happens to Missy and you don’t bother to tell your best friend? Or me, for that matter?”

  “Oh, jeez, so sorry, I didn’t know Bearer of Bad News was part of my official job description,” Stuart growls.

  “Guys, stop, stop,” I say. “Let’s take a breath before any of us say anything we can’t take back, okay? Look, we’re all stressed out and worried about Missy, but we’re not going to solve anything by jumping down each other’s throats. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but maybe school will help us decompress a little.”

  One by one, the others nod in agreement.

  “Stuart, keep your eye on your phone in case Missy texts you. If there’s any news, give us a shout on the brainphone and we’ll figure it out from there.”

  “Yeah, right,” he says.

  Good call on my part: We gather at my locker after the final bell and attitudes have definitely improved (aside from a sudden melancholy that hit us at lunch due to the prominent Missy-shaped hole at the table).

  Stuart informs us he received a text from Missy right after we left the cafeteria. All it said was: home restn dad stil n hosp. There’s a brief debate whether we should head over to her place and check in on her or leave her alone so she can get some rest, but like I said: It’s a brief debate. The unanimous decision is that we need to make sure our Muppet is okay.

  She’s alive, but okay? Not even.

  Missy opens the door and we gasp in unison at the wreck of her face. Her left eye is ringed in blackish-blue, her lips are swollen and puffy, and four lines of tight stitches cross her forehead and scalp near the hairline — or, more accurately, where her hairline would be if it hadn’t been shaved away to make room for the sutures.

  “Oh, jeez, Muppet,” Stuart whimpers, arms extended uncertainly, like he’s not sure whether it’s safe to hug her. Missy hugs him instead, then the rest of us in turn as we file into the house.