Conspire

by SE Hall

  “Work was fine,” I let my head collapse against the couch cushion and take a few calming inhales, “informative, actually, which is why,” my volume escalates, “I need in these cocksuck—” I stop myself in the presence of a lady, lifting my head to offer an apologetic smile, “these laptops so badly. I’ve cracked codes on strangers’ stuff in the blink of an eye, but my own brother and it’s like Labyrinth over here! Had Devon started speaking in any new language I didn’t know about?”

  “No,” she snickers, coming to sit beside me, “you’ll find it when you quit looking.” She pats my shoulder. “Devon always told me, ‘Keep it simple, stupid.’ Then I’d slug him for calling me stupid.”

  “Sshh! Don’t talk, oh!” I bark and snag up his electric blue laptop. “Come on baby,” I hum and type it in K-I-S-S.

  “Reagan, I love your ass!” My arm twists around her neck, pulling her head into my chest, which I plaster in slobbery, excited affection. “You did it. We’re in!”

  “What about the other one?” she mumbles into my shirt.

  Letting her loose in the best interest of her breathing, I stare at the screen, but speak to her. “Hey, one thing at a time, Gladys Glass-Half-Empty. Now, let’s see what we’ve got.” I rub my hands together like a kid about to dive in on Christmas morning.

  Everything is firing on all pistons; I can’t look, type, or think fast enough. I feel like I’m on a game show, shoved in a glass box with only thirty seconds to grab as much cash blowing around me as I can. I can’t help a tiny surge of pride. He was good…but big brother’s better.

  I see journals, calendars, and files marked ‘record true’ and ‘record them’. Without delving too deeply right off the bat, I organize, pull all items of interest into a file of my own, make a list of what’s contained therein, and my questions about each. I have a system and I follow it, no matter how topsy-turvy the person I’m researching did things.

  After I don’t know how long, Reagan sets a plate with two slices of pizza and a cold beer in front of me. “Take a break, Sherlock. Eat something,” I think is what she says. Not hungry, busy.

  “Gra—Bryce!” I turn my head when she yells this time, but my left eye has gone rogue, still on the screen. “That’s it.” She slams the lid down, smashing my fingers.

  “Um, ouch.”

  “Enough. Eat.” She points at the food. When I take a bite under her unrelenting scrutiny, she again smiles and talks. “Would you like to tell me what you’ve found, or hear about what I have first?”

  “You,” I mumble through a mouthful.

  “All right,” she pulls up her legs to sit comfortably, facing me fully, “Devon was helping at the clinic three days a week for four-hour blocks with the people specifically in trial groups for a drug called Cerefore. They’re—”

  I cough, my current bite flying out of my mouth. “Cerefore?”

  She nods, grimacing as she glances over at my spat-out chunk of pizza. “You’re picking that up, by the way. But yeah, Cerefore, why?”

  My brain’s reeling faster than I can form the words, so I hold up one finger and grab the blue laptop I’d set aside while I ate. How great it’d be if she could just read my mind. I can hardly be bothered to power down my brain and speak in an understandable speed and manner, but I must, needing her to fully understand every aspect and be on the same page.

  “Reagan, had you ever seen this laptop?”

  “No, only the green one,” she nods towards the lime green one—I would’ve given him such shit over the color—on the other table, “why?”

  “Hang on.” I stand and grab it. It’s an eerie but somewhat comforting current that crackles around me, the roots of my hair tingling in my scalp, feeling as though Devon is right beside me, whispering directions in my ear. It’s the closest I’ve felt to him in a long time. It’s nice, a sense of brotherhood coursing warmly through me.

  Nice try.

  Nope.

  Stop looking.

  Not it either.

  Wrong one.

  I growl as yet another password attempt fails. Talk to me, Devon. I close my eyes and scenes of two boys playing hide-n-seek, cops and robbers, and tag flashes in my mind, the sky, leaves, and grass as vibrantly colorful now as they were back in those days. I drill down further, going blank, letting memory and subconscious take over.

  A lawnmower whirs in the background. Mrs. Weaver walks by with that yippy dog I hated on a leash. I’m the seeker. Devon uses my distraction to buzz past me, slapping a gloating hand on the ‘home free’ column of our porch.

  “Older doesn’t mean smarter, buttface!”

  I laugh aloud at his thumbs in his ears, fingers waggling as he sticks out his tongue at me.

  My fingers shake slightly as I open my eyes, rejoin the now, gather my bearings, and then type: Buttface.

  Access granted.

  A quick look around and glorious triumph puffs out my chest—I’m getting there. Just as I suspected, the device is empty, set on the same factory settings as the day purchased and unused for anything, a decoy.

  I shut it down and move back to my seat beside Reagan. “Everything we need is on the blue one. That one was a dummy.”

  “Devon,” she smiles, shaking her head with a small, pained laugh, “I may miss his brain most of all.”

  “Cerefore…tell me everything,” I sidetrack her, practically smelling her tears coming.

  “It’s being tested for JCC, where he worked.” I nod at her in encouragement and she continues, “The people come in once a week, get their injection and two-hundred dollars, and then answer a series of questions and take a memory test at each subsequent visit. Like, one lady today, she’s on her third shot and comes every Wednesday. So, I gave her the survey, recorded her answers, she took the memory test, a nurse gave her a shot, and then the girl at the front handed her cash. There’s thirty test subjects,” she shivers, “people, who report at that particular clinic, all spread out. Six of them on Monday, Tuesday…you get it.”

  “Oh, I’m starting to. This drug, what’s it do?”

  “Well,” she sits up straighter, her proud shoulders rising along with her clever grin, “I did some top-notch work myself, boss. With the help of Google, I learned most drugs tell you exactly what they do in their name, usually with Latin or Greek word parts. Cere means ‘brain’, like cerebellum, which isn’t as catchy, and fore is a tricky one, but after several branching searches, I’ve found it to mean ‘defining the sum’. Cerefore basically means controlling how much is in the brain.”

  “What?” She might as well have told me all of that in Latin. How, what…sounds like some sci-fi bullshit to me. “So, people are volunteering to be injected with something that, what, shrinks or expands their brain?”

  She taps her nose and says cutely, “Ding, ding, ding! Tell him what he’s won, Johnny.”

  I need some time to chew on this. I…yeah, so I change course again. “I found some journal entries he’d deleted, or so he thought.” I wink. “See if this makes any sense to you.” I turn the screen her way.

  05.22.14 1816 CST ENTRY 42

  Email sent requesting private meeting with Mr. Craig, no response as of yet. Agenda twofold: 1. Growing concerns on Cerefore trials feedback. During OD last visit, sporadic bouts of blurred vision accompanied by frequent, severe migraines and fleeting numbness in fingertips reported. 2. Notes as such in clinic chart do not match those keyed into JCC logs.

  See entry 38, similar concerns reported by female test subject, suggesting possible complications are not exclusive to one sex. Additionally, OD and female differ in ethnicity and have a six year age difference. Side effects appear to affect many points of diversity. Not related, perhaps, but even more suspicious, Doughboy has just walked into my office with an invite for drinks. Fact finding mission?

  It will be for me, most certainly.

  End entry

  -DH

  She stays silent long after she’s finished reading, mulling, connecting dots, much li
ke myself. Finally, with a loud exhale, she surmises out loud, “Devon worked for JCC, the founder of Cerefore. He also just so happened to volunteer at the clinic running trials on the same drug. He had concerns, knew records didn’t match, and requested a meeting with the owner of the company.” She looks to me, her eyes worried, angry, and watery as she chews on her bottom lip.

  “Today, Jocelyn told me Devon was assigned specifically to their Cerefore files, and his work computer had been swiped.” I run a hand back through my hair, hoping this isn’t as bad as I’m starting to realize it is. “Reagan, I need you to find OD. It’s not their initials, too obvious. He was either sending them on that exact wild goose chase or on the search for an overdose, which there isn’t one—trust me. It’s a code, and we have to figure it out.”

  “And Doughboy?” she asks in an apprehensive whisper.

  “That I understand perfectly. Just gotta find the who. I’ll know the minute I meet him at work.” Her brows peak in question before I explain, “Doughboy is what we called this asshole we grew up with. Rich, spoon-fed punk, thought life owed him ‘cause everything was always handed to him. While anyone who got in my brother’s computer would be hunting down a fat guy, or one whose last name resembled Dough, I know exactly who I’m really looking for.”

  A conspiratorial smile spans her face, giving glory to one small victory and I join her. “You find OD; I’ll find Doughboy. Oh, and I need a copy of the questions you ask and the memory test.”

  She sniffles fleetingly, sticks out her hand, and I cover it with my own. “Plan Devon on three,” she chokes out, then counts us off and we throw up our hands.

  Huddle of two ready to rock.

  Exhausted but charged off our progress, I lay awake far longer than I’d like, and my mind finds its way to Jocelyn.

  Today wasn’t an act; she definitely knows nothing about whatever it is I’m soon to uncover. She’s good, the lone, bright strobe of light shining out, a guide to safety and home over the sea of darkness she is unaware she’s swimming in.

  There is no way this ends well for her. Much like my brother’s murder did to me, she will be shocked, deceived, and betrayed to her core, left dumbfounded and…hurt.

  I’m already sympathizing with her, yet more so, speculating. Knowing so little about her, but feeling something insistently guiding me toward her like a light, I’m leery yet hopeful of where Jocelyn will end up standing.

  Next to me?

  I shake off the premature, random wondering and try for sleep.

  A NERVOUS EXCITEMENT HUMS through me as I pull up at Marcelo’s Bar late Thursday afternoon. I’m not sure what to expect from Bryce, still uncertain if he’ll actually show or not. I haven’t seen or talked to him since yesterday in Devon’s old office, my entire day wrapped up in meetings with Marketing, reviewing and tweaking the Cerefore campaign.

  I’m so tired of looking at charts and graphs I’m afraid I may be permanently cross-eyed. In the few free minutes I did have, I racked my brain trying to figure out what could have possibly happened with the blank super-user log in, but failed to make any progress. Now I just want to relax with a drink, hopefully seated next to Bryce, but either way, a drink to unwind.

  Alyssa’s smiling face is already waiting for me as I walk into the upscale, downtown establishment, perched on a barstool and looking as beautiful as ever. I scan the room as I thread through the tables to reach her, hoping it’s not completely obvious I’m searching for him.

  “Loverboy isn’t here yet, sweets,” she confirms as she pulls me in for a hug, despite the fact we only left each other’s company a half an hour ago, “and I totally won’t take the look of disappointment on your face too personally, even though I’ve been begging you to join me for happy hour for well over a year now.”

  I slide onto the stool next to her and lift my hand in the air to get the bartender’s attention. “Blame your brother for me never coming. He preferred to keep me locked away like I was his dirty little secret,” I mutter. Turning my attention to the girl behind the bar once she’s within earshot, I call out, “Grey Goose martini, dry and stirred, please.” She tips her head, indicating she heard me, and turns around to grab the bottle of vodka from the shelf behind her.

  “Oh snap! My girl Jocie is getting serious. I may need to make the switch from beer if we’re going to have one of those kinds of nights,” Alyssa comments as she pulls a swig from her bottle. “Oh, and for the record, I blame you for putting up with his shit as long as you did. I told you over and over he didn’t deserve you, but yet you continued to keep him on some imaginary fucking pedestal. And why? Because you gave him your virginity? Come on! Pull your head out of the Jocelyn fairytale and welcome to the real world.”

  The bartender sets my drink in front of me and I tell her to start a tab, purposely not responding to my best friend. I know she speaks the truth, and she knows I know, but I really don’t want to have this conversation right now. The way her mouth’s already running, I’m hoping she doesn’t switch from beer.

  After a few sips of the potent but tasty drink, I keep my stare forward, not wanting her to see the humiliation in my eyes—humiliation for being a doormat for so many years, years I will never get back. “Let’s not live in the past. There’s nothing I can do about mistakes made except learn from them. I’m here now, aren’t I?”

  “Yeah, but are you here for you or for the guy who just walked through the door?” she says lowly, leaning in close to my ear.

  I suck in a deep breath, knowing exactly who she’s referring to. I haven’t even seen him yet, but simply knowing he showed up makes my palms clammy and my insides heat up a few thousand degrees. With another sip of my martini to settle my nerves, I twist my neck slightly to face her and smile roguishly. “Both.”

  She beams back at me. “That’s my girl. Now take care of business; he’ll be here in three…two…”

  “Hey, ladies,” Bryce’s rich, virile timbre rings in my ears, which somehow stimulates and soothes me concurrently. “Sorry I’m a bit late; I got caught up with paperwork at the office.”

  Alyssa spins around to greet him with a welcoming smile. “Hey there, glad to see ya made it. You must work for some terrible, slave-driving company,” she teases. “Maybe you should find a new job.”

  “Yeah, I probably should,” he jests back, “but there’s this certain boss lady there, and just the slightest possibility I may get to see her in passing makes all the long hours and hard work worth it.”

  I’m so glad I haven’t turned to look at him yet, because I’m one hundred percent certain my face and blouse are the same shade of crimson. I can’t believe he just said that.

  “You don’t say?” Alyssa continues the ridiculous conversation, and I hear Bryce chuckle lightly. “I’ve got a pretty hot boss too, who I’d totally try to hook up with…if I was into other chicks. If I’m ‘bian honest, she’s got this ass that when she walks away—”

  “Okay, that’s enough,” I blurt out, whirling around to stop the insanity. Both of them fail epically at their pitiful attempts to contain their amusement, and as embarrassed as I am, I can’t help but laugh with them.

  Once he’s restored a somewhat straight face, Bryce turns on his mega-watt, thong-melting grin in my direction. “Oh hey, boss lad— I mean, Jocelyn. I didn’t notice you were here.” This instigates another round of giggles, primarily from Alyssa, as he hops his glorious ass atop the barstool on the other side of me.

  “Shuddup, both of you,” I command playfully. “What do you want to drink, Bryce?”

  He glances at the empty bottle in front of Alyssa and my own half-drank martini then cocks his eyebrow at me. “I was gonna say a beer, but it looks like you had a rough day. Want some liquor company?”

  I bob my head up and down, still beaming at him as Alyssa announces she’s making the switch too. Oh joy. “Three Mind Erasers and three more of whatever kind of martini the lady’s having,” he orders from the bartender, whose eyes linger a little longer
than I care for on Bryce’s face.

  “Mind Erasers?” I ask, having never heard of the drink before. “Is that a shot?”

  “You’ve never had a Mind Eraser?” He pins me with a teasing, inquisitive expression. “It’s the one you suck through a straw as fast as possible, sometimes as a drinking game where you race your friends, and it gives you a head rush just before the alcohol sets in. Hence the name: Mind Eraser.”

  Alyssa leans forward onto the bar in order to look around me to Bryce. “Your boss lady friend here doesn’t get out much. Sheltered doesn’t begin to cover it,” she states matter-of-factly.

  “Can we please not talk about me like I’m not here? And no, I’ve never had one, but I’m liking the way it sounds, especially if it makes me forget the last ten minutes of conversation ever happened.”

  They both laugh at me...again…and thankfully, the bartender approaches, placing a strange-looking, layered, iced drink in front of each of us. “I’ll be right back with the martinis.”

  Bryce takes hold of the rocks glass and raises it in the air for a toast, a mischievous smile upon his face. “To boss ladies who need their mind erased and cherries popped.”

  “To Jocie,” Alyssa concurs, elevating her glass to clink against his in front of my face.

  I don’t join them in their antics; instead, I begin to rapidly suck the unfamiliar concoction through the straw provided. The moment I finish, several things happen all at once. First, the Phillies hit a walk-off grand slam to beat the Cubs, which in turn causes the majority of the bar to stand up and begin whooping raucously with joy. Then, several bodies—a mix of coworkers and people Alyssa and I went to school with, mainly her crew back then—show up and swarm around our chairs, saying their hellos and joining in the celebration of the other patrons. And lastly, I feel a strong hand on the back of my neck, tilting my head back to stare into the eyes of the absolute last person I want to see.

  “Hey, dollface,” Hunter greets me with a pretentious smirk. “Wasn’t expecting to see you here.”