by Mike McCrary
“You give, I give.” Peyton leans in. Never allowing her fear to show. “If we can open up a dialogue, one like nice, friendly, well-balanced members of society do, then you get things. Nice things.”
“Like a puppy to fuck.”
“Not helping yourself.”
“I want to open up your skull.”
“See? This is precisely why you can’t have nice things.”
Brubaker’s fingers dig into the cherry wood.
Peyton leans in closer. They told her to take it easy with Brubaker, but Peyton is tired of dicking around with this woman. She tosses aside the idea of letting Brubaker drive the conversation. Aggression is the only language she seems to respond to.
“Where are the rest of them?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Brubaker smiles huge. “I’m all alone in the world. You geniuses made sure of that.”
Peyton’s teeth grind under her smile.
“Well, I’m never really truly alone. Am I, Dr. Peyton?” Brubaker pokes at her temple with her bound hands. “It’s me and Kate in here forever and ever.”
Brubaker giggles. Waves crash behind her.
Peyton takes a beat. Slows her roll.
“Do you still feel a difference?” Peyton leans back. So does Brubaker. “Can you tell when there’s a shift between Brubaker and Kate?”
Brubaker picks at a knot in the wood of the table. She’s shutting down.
“Come on.” Peyton considers, then casually flips her wrist in the air, signaling the people outside. “We’ve got nothing but time. Might as well make the most of it. Let me help.”
One of the large men enters holding a silver tray that contains a bottle of high-end bourbon—the good stuff—with two crystal glasses. He sets the tray down in front of Peyton.
“You, meaning Kate, used to enjoy a good stiff drink. Used to work in a restaurant, right? With your husband. Noah, was it? He was a bartender? You two would share a drink at the end of your shifts.”
“Stop. You know damn well—”
“The files on Brubaker and Kate are gone. You and your people destroyed them during the escape, but I had another group do a deep dive and found out a lot about you. Both of you.” She pours one glass about a half inch. Just a taste. “I’m going to just call you Brubaker from now on. It’s easier. Since you’re all alone in the world now anyway. Right?”
Peyton pushes the glass toward Brubaker, being careful not to get too close.
“Bit of a light pour, Dr. Peyton.”
“Again. You give, I give.”
Brubaker looks behind her. The restraints dig into her skin as she looks toward the hidden door where the large man exited.
“What else you got back there?” Brubaker turns back, picking up the glass.
“Anything and everything.” Peyton sips her drink. “This doesn’t have to be awful. This isn’t prison. I know you know how that world works.”
Brubaker drinks slow from the glass. Lets it coat her tongue. Closes her eyes as it slips down her throat. A damn, that’s good expression spreads across her face.
“This?” Peyton circles her finger around the room. “All this is about us learning about you.”
“Bullshit. This is about you unpacking your project. About you planting a flag, making a name for yourself.”
Peyton thinks about arguing the point but decides not to.
“Probably. Maybe. Yeah, why not. I’ve worked hard.”
“That you have.”
“With that understood, I need to know about your friends. They are dangerous people, Lady Brubaker. They are not, as far as I know, sitting in nice ocean rooms sipping expensive bourbon. They’re still out there, aren’t they? Roaming free with innocent people.”
Brubaker shrugs.
“How many are there?”
Brubaker points inside her glass, making a fat lip, begging for a refill.
Peyton shakes her head no.
“Two? Twenty? How many of your loyal subjects are out there? I know they follow you. It’s impressive what you’ve done.”
“Thank you.”
“Where are they?”
Brubaker only stares back.
“Come on.” Peyton waves the bottle. “What are you holding on to? I can offer you a real life. We can help you.”
“There’s more like me out there.” Brubaker clucks her tongue. “That much is true.”
“Okay.”
“One more. One, like me.”
“Only one?” Peyton shifts. “Where?”
Brubaker’s smile is cold. Eyes go dark.
“Where are my children?” Brubaker’s face shifts to a new shade of red. “Where are my girls, you fucking piece of shit?” She pounds her bound hands on the table. “Where!”
Her rage is immediate. Zero to a hundred in a blink.
The steel cuts into Brubaker’s wrists. Blood drips.
“I’m sorry. We were friends for a second there, right? We were talking nice before I got all crazy. What were we—oh yes, you had questions about the people I may or may not know.” Brubaker goes calm, as if a button was pressed inside her mind. “You have no idea, do you? None.”
“What—” Peyton stops. Words robbed from her lips.
There’s an undeniable change in Brubaker. As if Peyton can see inside her. Her eyes have become clear windows with a breathtaking view of her pain. Brubaker’s eyes fill with tears begging to fall. She will not allow them their release. Is this her? Is this Kate talking? Her chin quivers as she speaks.
“You have no idea what it’s like in here.” Brubaker’s voice cracks.
“Help me.”
“The thoughts she has.”
“Help me to understand.”
“The memories of the things she’s done.”
“Kate,” Peyton yells. “Talk to me, please.”
Brubaker smashes the glass on the wood. Peyton shoves herself away from the table, waving her arms wide for all outside the room to see. Brubaker picks up a sharp chunk of glass.
The large men fly in.
Agent Irving follows.
Brubaker jams the sharp glass into the side of her neck. Peyton dives across the table, grabbing her arm, stopping her from dragging the edge completely across her throat.
Their faces are an inch apart.
Brubaker is strong. Peyton’s body shakes while trying to hold her back from finishing the job. Blood drips down onto the cherry wood.
Brubaker’s smile is wide. Eyes lost.
“Get her out,” Agent Irving yells.
Brubaker is pulled out of her chair. The chunk of glass clinks to the floor. The large men move her quickly out of the room. Agent Irving barks orders into his comms as he follows.
The door shuts.
The waves roll.
Peyton exhales. Fights to hold back the tremors taking control over her body. She knew having a drink was a risk. She had to try something. Right? This wasn’t a standard meeting. Not a textbook situation. Having a drink had worked in the past. Worked with Murphy, to some degree. Peyton had to recreate the memory. Had to use the same bourbon, the same style of glasses or it wouldn’t take hold inside Brubaker’s mind. Anything less would have had a layer of falsehood to it. Authenticity was mandatory. At least that’s what Peyton tells herself.
Peyton looks to the smear of blood that stretches from the table to the door. There was nothing in Brubaker’s profile that suggested potential suicide. Exactly the opposite. Lady Brubaker has consistently displayed a style of narcissistic personality that would never consider taking her own life. Something is changing in her.
Is her mind changing?
With any scientific endeavor there are starts and stops. Successes and multiple failures. This project was rushed. Not allowed to be tested or perfected as it was intended to be. Not with the Brubaker side or with Murphy.
Peyton’s mind flashes to when they first approached Murphy in prison. When he agreed to have his mind altered in hopes of bei
ng better. That day, her so-called partner, Agent Thompson, made some cracks about Murphy’s mother. Murphy pulled on his steel restraints until his blood spilled. His rage was as sudden as Brubaker’s was moments ago.
Peyton downs her drink with a shaky hand.
The door opens up. Peyton nearly jumps out of her skin.
Agent Margo Darby walks in.
Peyton fights not to stand up straight. Something about this woman makes Peyton think she’s still in grade school. Makes her feel as if she’s always wrong. Darby moves like a shark. Eyes forward yet scanning constantly. Margo Darby is in her early forties, triathlon-fit with shoulders always squared, like she’s perpetually prepared for conflict. Face unreadable. After Central Park and Montauk, the CIA put her in charge of this operation. And for good reason.
Darby reaches for the bottle with eyes wide, looking to Peyton as if asking if she can have a taste of the good stuff as well.
Peyton nods, wrapping her face in hands.
“Well.” Darby takes a pull from the bottle. “That went well.”
Chapter 6
Tomorrow is the day.
A special day for Mr. Madness—formerly nice, quiet Cody Higgins—because tomorrow he will go to the safe house. Tomorrow he will see her. Talk to her. Hear the new plan from Brubaker’s lips. Excitement buzzes like a hive inside of him. This is everything. This amazing new life of his is moving forward. Moving forward with the new personality he’s really digging deep into, and now he’s not far from receiving word from the most important person in his life.
He thought he might feel differently after seeing Murphy in Central Park.
Thought it might change something inside of him.
But it didn’t. Still, it’s Brubaker he holds as everything. She’s the one who made him who he is. Corrected him. Made him better. Sure, the doctors and scientists made him in the clinical sense. They manipulated his mind. Fed him the drugs. Deprived him of sleep, cut skin and bone, worming their way into his skull until he was part Murphy and, to a much lesser degree, part nice, quiet Cody Higgins.
But it was Brubaker who taught him how to live.
How to see the world and everything in it through new eyes. She showed him how to carve through the fog, be better, and how to work the machinery of this new, wonderous life. What a remarkable gift she’s given him.
They took Cody Higgins from a discount short-term parking lot near the airport.
It was late at night. Just after midnight, if memory serves.
They kept him for days. His wife barely noticed. Boy is she noticing him now. She’s probably telling the police all about him at this very moment. About how her nice, quiet husband killed her boy toy and then put a bullet in one of the thighs she spreads so easily for him. When she tells the story, she’d better call him Mr. Madness.
The least she could fucking do.
“Tomorrow is going to be amazing,” Mr. Madness whispers to himself as he grips the leather steering wheel of his dead neighbor’s car. Mr. Madness used to lust over this car much in the same way his neighbor used to lust over his wife. Seemed only fair to kill him for what he was doing with his wife and then take this oh-so-fine car for a spin. A black Mercedes pampered and babied to maintain its amazing condition. One that has the option to select autonomous or choose to manually drive, the way free humans who were born to roam do. Also, a car the police will be tracking once they notice it’s missing. They will be here soon, of course. That was part of the plan, actually.
Mr. Madness steps out of the car holding an axe.
He took it from the neighbor’s garage right before he took the car.
His feet crunch and then squish the grass as he moves up the lawn of his boss’s home. His gun is tucked behind his back. He thought the axe would be more of a bombastic touch. A real classic slasher movie sort of feel to what he’s trying to accomplish here. The moonlight even catches the blade just right as he stalks toward the front door.
Perfect.
His boss used to love to talk down to Cody. Dismissed his ideas. Disregarded his contributions on a regular basis. Diminished everything about him. A man who really enjoyed taking out his own insecurities on nice, quiet Cody. Mr. Madness has a little time to kill before his special day tomorrow.
Mr. Madness kicks in the door.
The boss stands a few feet off the living room talking to his wife, who’s seated in the colonial living room. His eyes pop wide as plates, freezing upon recognition of who is standing in front of him wielding an axe. Mr. Madness wastes none of his precious time with speeches. No need. He raises the axe up high over his head, then plants the blade into his former boss’s chest.
Blood spits and spills.
A spray zip-streaks across Mr. Madness’s forehead as he pushes the axe harder into his chest. The boss chokes on his words as they catch inside his throat. He coughs twice, then slumps down to the floor, folding like a dish towel. Mr. Madness keeps his hands gripped tight on the handle. The vibration still working through his arms.
The wife sits on the couch trembling with her mouth open wide, still clutching a glass of wine. She’s a much younger woman. A former assistant, if he remembers correctly. Left his second wife for a younger woman. The boss always was a bit of a cliché.
Mr. Madness brushes his hair back.
Thinks he’ll shave it later. No, buzz cut. High and tight.
“The company’s life insurance is generous. More than likely they will pay out his full bonus, his vested shares, along with six to ten months’ salary.” He looks her over. “This is the best day of your life. Do better.”
He lets go of the handle. Sirens wail outside. They must have finally tracked the car.
“Could I ask for a favor?” The corner of his mouth lifts in a half grin as he pushes his chin toward the street. “Please tell them Mr. Madness did this.”
Something buzzes in his pocket.
Puzzled, he removes a phone that is not his. He’s never seen it before. No idea how it got inside his coat pocket. Rushing toward the back of the house, needing to exit quickly, he passes by what would have been a lovely dinner cooking in the couple’s gourmet kitchen. Smells amazing. His eyes scan the message that appears across the screen of the phone.
You’ve done good. Do more. Kill everyone at…
There’s an address on the screen that Mr. Madness doesn’t know. It’s not too far from where he is, but not necessarily close either. He pushes out the back door into the yard, rushing toward the fence. His eyes read over the last line of the text.
Look forward to seeing you at the safe house.
The words vanish from the screen, dissolving into digital oblivion. Time-bomb texts have come into vogue over the years. Texts that leave no trace. His wife and neighbor used them. The screen recognizes your eyes have seen the message, then removes the evidence after a decided-upon time. Usually seconds.
Mr. Madness pulls and lifts himself up and over the fence. His feet land. He picks up speed, running into the dark woods that line a private golf course.
Is this Brubaker contacting him?
Could it be?
Maybe she had to change security protocols with a new phone?
His stomach tingles, delighted by the possibilities.
Of being chosen once again.
Please let it be her.
Tinker and Hiro sit at a strip joint.
They enjoy a drink and don’t hate the sights either.
Neither of them were ever strip-joint kind of guys before the big change. That massive change in their brains that linked them with a highly skilled killer named Murphy. Tinker vaguely recalls going to a place like this for a buddy’s bachelor party, although he feels like he’s been around this side of life more than he clearly remembers.
This might be Hiro’s first.
Or this could be one of many.
He too has some cloudy memories. Recalls many bars around the world with women removing their clothes for money. He protected a lot of weal
thy people. They could have dragged him into places like this. But that’s not it. The flickers of memories are mostly from meeting informants or contacts for jobs, but none of the memories feel like his. The memories, much like Tinker’s, feel as if they must be part of Murphy’s side of the mind.
“Murphy’s done a lot of things,” Tinker says, “hasn’t he?”
Hiro nods.
They’ve never talked much about what has happened to them. The combining of minds. The addition of Murphy. Brubaker told them all they need to know.
“Everything has happened so damn fast.” Tinker drinks.
Hiro nods, then drinks.
The music thumps a techno anthem from hell. Tinker motions for another drink. The glossy-eyed synthetic bartender stares back at him with the fakest of smiles, then moves toward the cooler stacked with beer in a slight herky-jerky motion. The robotics are better than they were a few years ago but they still lack a true human quality. Tinker guesses the owner was looking to cut back and needed real human women more than a flesh-and-blood bartender.
Tinker used to love a good bar. Used to absolutely adore the drink.
They grabbed Tinker after a meeting at a church. He was sixty days sober. Instead of receiving a celebratory chip, he got to share his brain with a psycho. Tinker isn’t sure which he likes better: drinking as a killer, or fighting for a relentless life of sobriety.
Tinker takes a drink.
He likes Hiro. They bonded after the escape. Not sure why. Maybe their pre-Murphy personalities mix well. Hiro rarely speaks but his actions boom louder than hell. They’d kill for one another. They follow the word of Brubaker, but they still have questions, not like some of the others that blindly follow her without thought.
The Murphy addition of crazy hangs on Tinker and Hiro just as heavy as the others, but they have managed to cling on to some healthy skepticism. Maybe they were the questioning type of people before Murphy was jammed into their skulls. Neither Hiro nor Tinker knows for sure. What they do know is that they are free, crazy killers, and they are sitting in a strip joint waiting for a meeting at a safe house that will take place tomorrow.
A drunk guy stumbles over, bumping into Tinker almost knocking him off his stool.