Then the Dark: A Technothriller (Markus Murphy Series Book 2)

by Mike McCrary

  Hiro breaks, rushes the door. Tinker holds up a hand as a stop sign. They have orders. Gently, he places his hands on Hiro’s broad shoulders, looking up to meet his eyes. Tinker whisper-mouths the words, Not yet.

  Hiro’s teeth grind.

  Tinker squeezes Hiro’s shoulders tighter, lowers his chin and nudges his head toward the window.

  We have to go.

  Hiro burns. Thinks. Finally nods with his eyes squeezed tight. Tinker exhales. They will have another chance at Murphy. There’s more work to be done. Fun to be had. Brubaker told them to meet at a safe house if things did indeed go the wrong way. To meet there in exactly one week. Tinker hands Hiro a stack of cash as he pockets what he can. Both grab guns and ammo from the bed. Money, guns, and bullets. Strong seeds for a new beginning.

  They hear Murphy talking on a phone.

  Sirens wail in the distance.

  Tinker opens the window.

  Spicy, indeed.

  6 DAYS LATER

  Chapter 4

  Markus Murphy and Mother sit quietly eating pie.

  Eyes are down, focused on the plates in front of them, but they are together, seated across from one another at a table in a tiny diner just off the highway. Forks click and scrape. Sad songs from days past play from unseen speakers sharing the same air as the competing scents of popping grease and browning crusts. This is a black-and-white checkered tablecloth type joint with a surly, burly waitstaff that offers small-town charm by way of a politely extended middle finger.

  Perfect.

  “Which shithole is this?” Mother shovels in a forkful of apple pie.

  “Number nine.” Murphy matches hers and raises her another forkful. “Pretty sure it’s nine.”

  Over the last few days, they’ve been traveling the area in search of the perfect piece of pie. All from a list Mother picked up while she was in prison. A woman in the next cell over was an expert—at least that’s what she said—and she talked all the time about touring the country once she satisfied her debt to the criminal justice system. A life spent eating pies from this best of list she’d carefully constructed.

  Mother thought that sounded like a pretty good idea.

  Never told the woman, but she did think it was a damn strong plan. It captured a lot of what a person with lost freedom dreams of—good food and untethered roaming. The woman with the pie list caught a makeshift blade between the ribs while standing in the lunch line one day. Had nothing to do with Mother, for the record. The woman bled out, but not before Mother got her hands on the list. Fast minds and quick hands that aren’t slowed down by sentimentality do well inside prison walls.

  Murphy and Mother discussed it for about two minutes when he picked her up. They decided this wandering plan of pies was better than anything else they could think of. They were both free for the first time in a long time. Perhaps free for the first time ever. Devouring the best pies America has to offer sounded pretty damn nice. Not to mention, it was a lovely way to honor Mother’s fallen prison buddy.

  This pie decision—as it would be known—also represented the first true agreement between the two of them. A nice crack in the ice that had chilled their relationship ever since sperm collided with egg.

  It’s only been a few days, and they may not have completely bridged the gap between them, but they have found some mighty good pie. Some flat-out amazing slices, actually. There have also been some so-so ones, and sadly some that were complete shit.

  Murphy and Mother have no real plans. That’s part of the plan. Eat pie, drive, and figure things the hell out. There’s a lot that’s happened. Taking time to decompress is not something either one of them has ever really done. Never spent any of that quality time together they’ve heard so much about other families doing.

  “So.” Mother sips some coffee. “Let me get this straight.”

  “Shoot.” Murphy stirs his.

  “You’re Markus Murphy. But in a way, you’re not. That right?”

  “Murphy.”

  “What?”

  “Murphy. Everyone calls me Murphy.”

  “I’m a Murphy too, dumbass.”

  “One, that was like three husbands ago. Two, if you’re going to force me to call you Mother all the damn time, then you can call me Murphy.” Forks another heap of pie. “Sound solid?”

  Mother considers this, then nods.

  The second agreement between the two of them. An avalanche of family growth.

  “Yes, to answer your question. I’m Murphy but with someone else added to the mix. Blended into my brain, if you will.”

  “And this new boy that’s joined the party is… Noah?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And Noah is a good person?”

  “Real Mr. Nice Guy.”

  “A nice guy? In your skull? That must hurt like hell.”

  “He was a nice guy. From what I can gather. I guess now it’s we… I don’t know. Stop with the questions already. Killing me.”

  “He had a family?”

  “Still does.” Avoids her eyes. Looks back down at his plate.

  Mother leans back, studying her son. There is something different about her boy but it’s hard for her to really put her finger on it. He’s always been a bit of a puzzle—a mean and nasty one—but this is much, much different. It’s in his eyes. Always in someone’s eyes, she knows. There’s something that shimmers like kindness in there. Not something she’s ever seen in her son before. Maybe not since he was tiny and still sweet.

  She turns, trying to get different viewing angles of him.

  “Stop.” Crust crumbles from his lips. “You’re not going to see him.”

  “You understand how batshit crazy this all sounds?”

  “I do.”

  “You two are in the same head. The CIA jammed you two together in a lab. Like a goddamn cerebral PB and J.”

  “Slightly more complicated than that, but yeah, that’s the stripped-down version.”

  “And all the whacko shit that’s happened. The riots? Central Park? The Cash Clash, I think they called it—the money stuff? That was because of this Mr. Nice Guy’s wife?”

  “Just think of us as Murphy. It’s easier for everybody.”

  “Fine. Everything almost burned to the ground, went straight to hell because of you two’s wife?”

  Murphy’s eyes drift ever so slightly.

  Mother scrunches her nose. There he is. Never seen hurt in her son’s eyes before either. Usually only a dark, empty space where feelings should reside. Now she can see the difference.

  “Sorry.” She leans in. “You. The other you that’s inside that dicked-up brain of my boy. You’re the reason we’re even having this conversation. You’re probably the only reason my boy is even speaking to me right now.”

  “Here we go.” Lets his fork drop with a clank.

  “Thank you—whoever you are—thank you for making my son a moderately less shitty human.”

  “Can we not?”

  “Thank you for having a sense of humor too. My boy wasn’t funny. He thought he was. He wasn’t. Not at all. But you, you’re all right, Mr. Nice Guy. You, I like.”

  Murphy starts to say something. A voice from the back of his head tells him to stand down. That smiling, damn voice tells him to let her have her moment. She just got out of prison. This is confusing for her. Still confusing for us too. A slight tug on the tail of his brain lets him know he should pull back. Mr. Nice Guy Noah is always present, shepherding Murphy on how being a functioning human works.

  Murphy gives a half smile, drinks some coffee, then touches his gun under his shirt. He won’t shoot her. However, the thought of it does provide him some comfort.

  Fingers off the gun, Mr. Nice Guy whispers from the corner of his mind.

  Kidding. I’m only kidding, Murphy reassures him. Sort of.

  His fingertips slip away from the gun. He smiles to his Mother. Eats some pie.

  Mother eyes him up and down. “You know this ain’t over,�
� she says.

  “What’s that?”

  “This thing. This thing with your head. Them out there.”

  “Them?”

  “Feds. CIA. All that shit you were telling me about.”

  “It’s over for me.”

  “Doubtful as hell.”

  “It’s over.” His words come out much harder and louder than he wanted. Didn’t even notice his nails are digging into the plastic checkered tablecloth.

  Mother stops off the boom in his voice. The sudden spark of wild in his eyes.

  “I’m still dealing with some anxiety.” Murphy peels his fingers from the plastic. Takes another bite of pie. “Still a work in progress.”

  “What’s that now?”

  “Anxiety. I’m feeling it. All of it.”

  “What kind of bullshit, pussy-chatter is that?”

  “I was just talking to you about it. Not more than five minutes ago. Ya know, my condition is ripe with big-ass, fluffy bursts of anxiety.”

  Mother stares back blank as a sheet.

  He realizes opening up to this woman is pointless. Murphy almost breaks his eyes trying to stop them from rolling.

  “You said something about you having kids.” She changes the subject so fast it hurts.

  “Not now.”

  “I’m a grandmother?” Her smile beams.

  “You’re not.”

  “I kind of am.”

  “Kinda not at all. They are Mr. Nice Guy’s girls.”

  “And he is you, so therefore, they are grandbabies of mine.” Spark in her eyes. “Girls?”

  He’s never seen his mother this way. Ever. Is this actual glee? Has prison softened her up? He can’t ever really recall her smiling, let alone the level of joy she’s showing right now. Joy set off by the idea of her sort of grandchildren.

  Murphy’s mind hits pause. Thoughts of the girls drive a sharp spear point into his bouncing brain. Like stabbing a fish from a stream. He’s avoided the thought of them while convincing himself that he wasn’t avoiding thinking about them. Denial wrapped in barbed wire.

  “I can’t,” he says, spreading his fingers wide on the table. Looking for calm in the storm. “I can’t do this.”

  “Do what? Not be an asshole?”

  Murphy squeezes his eyes tight. Counts to ten, finds a happy place. This is the simple, silly thing Dr. Peyton showed him. A calming exercise. Breathing in deep through his nose, then exhaling slow through his lips. Feels like there’re cold fingers gripping tight around his heart.

  Mother watches on. Unsure which way to go with this.

  Murphy’s mind fumbles for stable ground.

  He counts. He releases his breath slow and easy. His eyes pop open wide and wild. Murphy and Mother stare at one another. Neither having any idea of what to do or say. Murphy blinks. His hands shake. He shakes them back, then forces a smile onto his face in an attempt to shift the vibe of the table back to stable.

  Mother gives an unsure nod.

  “Saw a couple of places when we drove in.” Murphy tosses some bills on the table. “Let’s go shed a few pounds of this bullshit, pussy-chatter anxiety.”

  Chapter 5

  Waves break.

  Crashing, clapping, then smoothing out into a gentle rhythm playing in the distance.

  These soothing ocean sounds are pumped into the room from undetectable sources. The conscious mind knows they are synthetic, but they feel as real as anything. The walls of the room are a sophisticated, flawless LED display system designed to surround the subject in a calm, comforting environment. Ocean waves roll in and out, spreading all along the four walls at a hypnotic pace.

  An engulfing peace.

  The air is cool and crisp but never cold. A slight breeze that randomly activates based on an algorithm that collected air movement from three different beaches located in Malibu and Santa Monica. The floor is a polished nondescript concrete. The room is lit so the walls of rolling water are the focus, but not so much that you’d focus only on them. Studies show people tend to look down toward their feet during taxing conversations. The typical person avoids eye contact during such tense chats. Those same studies suggest simply removing the view of one’s feet below can help open up the subject’s willingness to share.

  There’s a table made from cherry wood in the middle of the room. Its bumps, lumps and small imperfections are left on the surface. Nothing smoothed over. Imperfections on display allow the subject to relax any thoughts of what perfect might be. A table specifically chosen to sit in this room among the wave walls. A solid slab of wood in the middle of the ocean. This is a room crafted to make the uncomfortable comfortable. Keep heartbeats stable. Voices below screaming. Emotions opened but kept unelevated. An optimal environment for difficult discussions. The desired effect is an oceanside conversation with someone who wants to help.

  Dr. Peyton enters the room.

  She takes a seat on a steel stool with a plush, black leather cushion. She brought no pen. No pad of paper. No electronic tablet. Everything in the room will be recorded, of course—audio, video, the vitals of the participants—but the illusion of one-on-one communication is beyond important here.

  It’s everything, actually.

  Peyton sits. Clears her throat as she places her palms flat on the table. She counts to ten, finds a comforting thought, much like she suggested to Murphy. She silently reaches ten. Her pulse is still up. Her shoulders are hovering around her ears like earrings.

  It’s not working at all.

  Releasing a deep sigh, she looks to the wall, bites her lip, then nods.

  Agent Irving strolls in with a casual strut. On the back end of his thirties, the tall gentleman with slicked-back hair moves like this is a bar. There’s a noticeable scar on his otherwise perfect olive skin. A two-inch-long slice from a fight survived. Peyton heard he almost lost the eye during an operation that went bad not long ago. Kept his eye, but an agent he was close to was killed that day. Brutally, she heard. Peyton wanted to ask him about it but decided not to push.

  “She’s out there. Good to go.” Irving’s eyebrows bounce. “She’s a goddam delight.”

  “Thank you.” Peyton nods. “Appreciate the color.”

  He lowers his chin while pressing his lips together. An are you sure about this? gesture.

  Peyton takes a moment. She forces her shoulders down, gives an unsure smile, then nods again. Agent Irving shrugs. He tried. He raises his hand, twirling a finger in the air.

  A beat that seems to last forever.

  A door opens, parting the waves.

  Two large men enter holding a woman between them. Both dressed in white shirts with beige pants and identification badges that hang around their thick necks. The two men have arms like thighs and broad shoulders, yet they still seem uneasy about this task. Their eyes dance back and forth between Peyton and the woman they hold tight between them.

  The woman has dark hair with the tips colored purple.

  Colorful tats cover her arms. Flowers and thorns mixed with interesting shapes and the large face of a gray wolf peeking out from under her white T-shirt.

  She’s gorgeous and terrifying.

  Eyes like a funeral.

  They sit Lady Brubaker down on a stool across the imperfect cherrywood table from Peyton.

  Her hands are bound in front of her. The men lock her chained feet to hooks in the floor. A padded strap is placed around her neck and then secured by a chain to a hook behind her. There’s a little slack—so the illusion of conversation has a chance—but this woman with the funeral gaze will not be going far.

  People will be watching every angle from outside the room as well, but they know these security measures are more than necessary. Too careful is not a thing. Brubaker has proven to be more than a difficult subject. Actually, she’s been tagged as one of the most dangerous people on the planet.

  There’s a round metallic device imbedded into her forearm.

  “Don’t bother with the devil tattoos?” Brubake
r eyes the silver circle.

  “Didn’t think we needed to hide things.” Peyton forces a smile.

  “Not anymore, at least.”

  Peyton’s hands begin to shake. She holds them together by locking her fingers tight.

  Brubaker does the same, only without the shaking. Waves roll around them as they look each other over. Peyton wants to let her talk. Forcing a conversational structure on Brubaker won’t work. She’ll play with you, dance a bit, then slam the door shut and it’ll take weeks to crack it back open.

  “This is nice.” Brubaker looks around the room. “Lovely, actually. Any chance I can be moved in here?”

  “Any chance you’ll stop putting my people in the hospital?”

  “Not much of one.”

  “Then, no.”

  Brubaker nods, jamming her tongue in her cheek.

  Peyton knew there would be some sparring between them. Both need to circle one another. Assess all the data given from the opponent. Prod and poke for weaknesses. Assess that new data. Then repeat until a level of comfort is reached or until Brubaker shuts down completely.

  “Well, Dr. Peyton, you got me out of bed. How can I help you?”

  “How are you feeling? I mean with the new treatments.”

  “Splendid.”

  Peyton now jams her tongue in her cheek.

  “No, really. I feel good. Whatever toxic shit you’re pumping through my body and mind is working marvelous miracles. I want to fuck a puppy, then go to church.”

  “Are you having fun?”

  “No.” Brubaker slams her hands down on the table. The chain pulls on her neck tighter. Her veins plump. Violent in a snap. “Not enjoying myself at all, Dr. Peyton.”

  Peyton’s eyes dart to the wall behind Brubaker. She told the men to wait for her word before coming in, no matter what. But given that Brubaker almost killed three agents just days ago, she’d understand if the boys get a little jumpy and storm in on instinct.