by David Beers
For a long time, Jeffrey had his work; now he had his drink.
What scared him was that he seemed okay with his life now. He wasn't necessarily disappointed with the way life had turned out, wasn't desperately trying to find something to write about and wasn't hating the headaches when he woke up with them or the nights when he fell asleep on his living room floor staring at the ceiling fan with a beer resting on the carpet next to him. It was, more or less, comforting. It wasn't out of control, not yet, and maybe with some luck he could lounge around all day at his pool and drink his cocktails without developing cirrhosis of the liver or diabetes.
He liked drinking and he was accepting the fact that he would never write again.
Jeffrey poured the orange juice into the glass and didn't bother to stir it. He took a sip, relishing the sweet bitterness. What Lecia didn't know wouldn't hurt her.
He walked into his living room and sat down on the couch.
Oh, Matthew Brand, why did you have to go and get yourself caught?
Jeffrey smiled at the thought. The two of them could have had a long life together if Matthew could have kept his mouth shut a little better. Matthew killing, creating his monstrosity, and Jeffrey following behind writing book after book. A real life Nancy Drew series. Instead the fucking idiot had gone and got himself caught a year after starting and now Jeffrey wasn't going to be writing anymore books because how do you follow up someone like Brand? Even O.J. Simpson and all that hoopla looked as pale as an albino next to Brand.
He thought about a follow up to The Devil's Dream, had even outlined the novel. He could focus on the lives of the families whose father's had been murdered, could focus on the science behind Brand's acts and where it was now (Jeffrey was pretty sure the government had taken what he'd done and began working on it the week after Brand was captured), as well as copy-cats that had sprung up after him. Jeffrey even pitched it to Lecia, who of course said yes. Again, the millions would rain down even if he shit on some paper and put it between two pieces of cardboard and shipped it out to bookstores. Without Brand the story just seemed empty. The thing that mattered most was gone; the energy that created the national furor was locked up, never getting out.
"Jesus Christ," he sighed. "Stop thinking about it. Brand's gone, your career is gone, just sip your drink and maybe call over Rita in a little bit."
He turned the television on.
Jeffrey blinked three times in rapid succession, trying to clear whatever was in his eyes causing him to see things. Five years ago was the last time anyone had mentioned that name on television. Two years since anyone had put it in print. So why was Good Morning America showing it? The blinking didn't help and the words Matthew Brand didn't disappear from the screen. Jeffrey left his glass on the coffee table and rubbed his eyes, trying to get rid of what simply couldn't exist in front of him.
When he brought his hands down, the words were still there.
He put the three together.
Matthew Brand Escapes.
Jeffrey took the glass from the table and pulled long and hard from it, downing half its contents in one sip. He set it on his knee, took a few deep breaths, and then put the glass back to his lips and finished it off.
He hadn't heard a word of what was being said on the television. His heart boomed and his lungs trying to catch up with the massive gulps he used to finish what was supposed to last him all morning.
His phone rang, somewhere far off in another universe. It rang and rang, and then the answering machine picked up.
"Answer the phone, Jeffrey. I know you're there and I know you're seeing this."
Lecia. Matthew Brand's name on the television and Lecia on the phone. He was out, free, after Jeffrey had assumed him the same as dead all those years ago.
He stood up from the couch and walked to the phone in the kitchen, Lecia's voice still yelling at him to pick up, to listen to her for just a second.
"Hello?" He said, feeling both dazed and slightly buzzed.
"You're watching this right? Your man is out. Running across the country, apparently. This is your book, right here, Jeffrey. You don't have to wait until he's caught to write it."
Jeffrey turned and looked at the television across his house, different pictures of the murderer being thrown up on the screen. This is your book. He hadn't drunk his life into a state of semi-retardation yet. He hadn't trashed his computer upstairs. He could still write.
"Brand's not finished," Jeffrey said.
"That's even better. I mean that in the kindest way I can, but for your writing, it's a blessing. What do you think? Is this book material?"
He didn't listen to anything she said. He was inside his own mind, remembering, recalling what he had written about Brand, what he learned from him. The man wouldn't stop, not ever. Brand wasn't going to go away. He wouldn't slip into Mexico and live out the rest of his life quietly, maybe teaching a college class somewhere. Brand's life, at least the ten years after his son died, were dedicated to that boy. He hadn't repented. He wasn't remorseful for the people he killed or the families he ruined. He was single minded like a shark, except instead of blood he wanted his son. He had no other purpose for living, no other reason to be outside of the science-fiction cell they kept him in. He was out and...where was he heading? Where would he go first?
"Lecia, I have to get off."
"Wait, wait! What are you going to do?"
"I have to figure out where he's heading."
* * *
Jeffrey pulled into the self-storage unit (Climate Controlled in large orange letters written across the building), parking his car in front of the garage he had rented for the past eight years. Everything he'd ever collected on Matthew Brand was inside it, filed away with a large tarp of plastic covering his notes in order to keep dust from settling. He hadn't been here since he locked it all those years ago, hadn't had any desire to dredge up the glory days. He collected checks and that was the only reminder he needed about his time spent learning of Matthew Brand. Coming in here would simply have reminded him of what he once was and would no longer be.
He stepped from his car, his buzz full on now from the drink he chugged at the house. It made him happy, sure, but that wasn't the only reason he felt like today was the best day he had seen in some time. He felt reborn, like opening this garage was going to allow him a resurrection, the same as Christ when someone rolled away that huge boulder from the garage they kept him in. He could find Matthew Brand; the answers were all filed away inside the storage unit—meticulously filed. If Brand was on the mission his arrest had stopped him from completing, which he was, then where he needed to go would be housed inside here. No one in the world knew the man, knew what he wanted, better than Jeffrey.
He walked to the garage door, put the key in, unlocked the deadbolt, and lifted.
The smell of paper and dust long forgotten flooded out. Air that hadn't moved in years finally having a bit of freedom, yearning to mix with its family outside.
Jeffrey walked in, turning the light on by flicking a switch on the wall. A large, clear tarp covering boxes that went twenty feed deep, plastic things with lids on top of them. A few were stacked on top of each other, but he had tried to keep from doing that too much in case—
Well, in case he needed to look through some of this stuff.
He placed his hand on the plastic tarp stretched across everything and pulled, using both hands to open up the part of his life he'd left so long ago. He pushed the tarp out into the parking lot, not concerned a bit if it blew away.
He walked into the weeds of paper and opened the first box.
Chapter Six
"Go home, Dr. Riley. We'll talk tomorrow," Allison said, putting her cell phone to her ear.
Tom Riley didn't even nod. He stood up from his chair and walked from the room without speaking.
Allison looked over her shoulder at the clock on the wall. She'd been here seventeen hours and only used the restroom once. The clock said it was eleven a
t night and Riley had been with her almost the entire day. Art calling her was probably for the best, otherwise he might not have left until she did.
"Agent Moore," she said.
"Hey, how's it going there?"
"There's a lot we don't know, Art."
"It's time to tell the media. Put it out everywhere. We did get a look at where he's heading though. His wife, her name's Rally Hunter now, received a call from him at three this afternoon. We tracked down the number, it was a pay phone in Texas, so it looks like he's heading east. Took seven hours for the information to find us because we haven't told anyone what's going on."
Allison leaned back in her chair.
"His ex-wife?"
"Yeah, apparently he couldn't keep from calling her. This guy is a confident prick. So tell your people we're going to hold a press conference tomorrow morning, let them tell the news outlets, and get his picture out right now. We've got men out at the ex's house, but you need to make contact tonight or tomorrow. We have a patrol car outside of her place now, and she gave us permission to listen to her phone. After how much she helped last time, she knows the routine."
The man was talking as if he hadn't just worked all day and night, like he'd either just ripped a line of cocaine or woken up from a refreshing nap. She squinted her eyes and nodded. "I'll get the message out to our people in the media immediately."
"It gets worse, Allison. He's not running just to run, like we hoped. Hunter said his exact words were 'I'm going to get our son back.' He's trying to keep going."
"That's impossible. It took him ten years to build the place last time. All of it was confiscated," Allison said.
"It took him nine years to come up with the science behind it. It took him a year to build all of that and to kill those cops. I'd bet he didn't forget the science behind it all."
"Jesus."
"What are the scientists able to tell you?" He asked.
"Riley's the guy in charge. Tom Riley. He's explaining how all this stuff works right now, spent all day talking to me about what they know, what they don't know, and what he thinks he can find out. He says Brand's brain should be pretty much completely mapped out, they just have to begin breaking the data down."
"I don't know how much time you want to spend in that area. Remember, Brand's not inside that test tube anymore; he's out here, with us. Let him do the research and if he finds something fine, otherwise you're not living in the land of computers, okay?"
"Yes, sir."
"There's someone else you should talk to as well. His name is Jeffrey Dillan. I don't know if you remember, but he wrote a book on Brand the first time around. Supposed to be a pretty good journalist, and supposed to be pretty much an expert on Matthew Brand too. I imagine he's going to want something in exchange. If it's too high, let me know and we'll try to put some pressure on him."
"What's his name again?" Allison asked.
"Jeffrey Dillan."
"Alright. I'll make contact tomorrow."
"Anything you need from me?"
"No, I'm good right now."
"Talk tomorrow then," Art said.
Allison placed the phone on her lap. Seventeen hours, maybe twenty-two for Matthew Brand. How was he holding up? Dr. Riley said that it would be tough for him during the first couple of days. Bouts of fainting, a lot of sleeping, maybe some nausea. She hoped he was puking all over whatever car he'd found. Hoped he fell asleep at the wheel and plowed off a cliff somewhere. She didn't want to admit it, wouldn't say it out loud, but wondered if she should be here. What Riley told her today took hours for her to understand. You needed a PhD in something or other to even begin to spell the words he said.
She had been on manhunts before, even directed them. This wasn't the first time someone escaped from prison and planned on doing something bad, so why did she feel like she was barely keeping the tide from pulling her head under? Why did she feel like this was bigger than her, bigger than the doctor, bigger than any bestselling novelist?
He called his ex-wife. He told her what he was going to do.
Brand could be riding across the country without anyone knowing where he was, but instead he let everyone in the world know. If it had been anyone else, she would have just written it off as stupidity, but she couldn't do that with this man.
Not even a little bit.
* * *
He didn't mind the dreams. There had been a lot at the beginning of all this, twenty years ago when Hilman had actually been murdered. Dreams every night. The dreams, if he was honest, had been the reason Matthew got down to business about all of this: the thought that led him on a ten year chase and then a ten year slumber—he could have his son again. At night, he had been able to see him. In dreams, he could be with Hilman all the time. Why couldn't reality be like that?
Once he'd started working twenty-hour days on this project, the dreams slowed down. Once a week, then once a month, and the closer he got to accomplishing what he had set out on, the less he saw Hilman at night.
Then Matthew got himself arrested, thrown in handcuffs and thrown in jail. Thrown away, into the cold cell that both froze him and kept him alive. The dreams came back then, came on as fresh and hard as ever. It was good, the beginning of the ten year sleep, because he saw Hilman all the time. Matthew thought the cold wore on his brain though, the synapses inside shutting down and the creative piece that generated dreams slowing just like every other part of his body. The dreams stopped and he was left alone in that cell. Alone to himself and the cold that everyone said didn't hurt, couldn't hurt because the humans kept inside the Silos felt nothing. The cold hurt though, not his body, but his mind. He breathed it in and everything he knew became crusted with ice and the pain of tattoo needles.
Matthew lived by himself in that world of frozen pain for a decade.
So waking up in the middle of the night now, sweating, having dreamt of both Hillman and the machine that had imprisoned him wasn't much of an imposition. He didn't mind it at all.
His heart rate slowed and he started breathing again, letting out the air he held in his lungs. He didn't need to look around, didn't need to reorient himself. He was sleeping in a hotel off the side of I-75, having almost made it to his destination. He watched the news for a bit when he arrived, seeing that the manhunt had begun in earnest; they were going to use everything they could to stop the cop-killer. He watched for five minutes before turning it off and then climbed into the first bed he'd seen since the cot he used in jail—the steel springs dug into his skin every night.
Matthew slept and he saw his son, heard Hilman ask in a dream when he would see his dad again. The boy appeared as nine years old, not the young man he had been when he was gunned down. He could appear anyway he wanted in Matthew's dreams, they were all his son. Matthew knew the dreams were only that, not his son reaching out from an afterlife—they were his inability to give up Hilman. His brain's inability to move on.
Awake now, he stood up and walked to the window, pulling back the cheap curtain. The moon still shone out across the nearly empty parking lot. The sun wouldn't rise for another three hours and then Matthew would figure out how to get through the last leg of his trip. How long would he wait before starting? That was the most pressing question. There were reasons beyond the sun that he was down here in Florida. People he would need to see soon, but how soon? How quickly would the police figure out where he was going? Was it too early to strike now?
He would figure those things out on his ride to Daytona.
Rally wasn't a liar; she jumped on the phone as soon as they were done and blabbed everything she knew. He didn't expect anything else and he loved her for it. She hadn't married him because of his mind, and when Hillman died, it hadn't been the chance of getting him back that kept her with him for the few years after. To Rally, Matthew was wrong, and if he succeeded their son would be an abomination.
That was her choice and he couldn't do anything about it. His, though, was to get his son back. Their son. Maybe whe
n Hilman was here, talking again, maybe then she would be convinced. Either way, it was nearly time for him to begin. Time for him to find the people he needed. Time to take them and build.
* * *
Matthew would have liked to steal a cop's car. To find a cop working at a convenience store and take it while the officer was inside. The old Matthew would have done it. Stalked a cop all day if need be, and then when he saw an opening, stole the car and perhaps killed the police officer. Just for the messaging: that none of them were safe. That if he wanted to get someone, he would, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.
Acting like that had been selfish. Childish even. Killing cops for their cars did hold reason, but that reason was secondary to Matthew's goals. Just killing cops was about his pride, his anger, his revenge. It left him no closer to speaking with Hilman, no closer to reclaiming his lost family.
All that was done. It created risks he didn't need, even if they were small, and it did little to bring his Hilman back.
Matthew left the hotel room carrying his key and walked outside into the parking lot. The sun still hadn't quite risen above the horizon, but its glow could be seen and birds chirped from the power lines. Soon the world would wake and the hunt for him would begin again, if it had even stopped for the night. Matthew went to one of the cars in the lot, an old Impala with the paint coming off the roof. The good thing about being in Florida was the car theft: rampant. A car missing in a motel like this wouldn't be put on anyone's radar outside of the local police department.
Matthew tried the handle, but luck wasn't on his side.
"Alright then," he said, turning around and heading back into his hotel room.
Within a few minutes, he had the television completely apart and lying on the bed. He sifted through the parts inside, looking for the pieces he needed. Finding them, he walked back outside, leaving the key and the disassembled television lying on the bed. His pocket jingled a bit as he walked, the metal instruments bouncing off each other. The sun had risen a bit more, but no one stirred in the hotel. The one light in the parking lot flickered on and off, not casting a wide enough glow to brighten much outside of a narrow radius. It didn't take Matthew long to get in once he was at the car. He jiggled his new tools around in the right places first on the door and then in the ignition. The car started, sounding like a rusty can with nails shaking around inside.