by Mike McCrary
He can put two in this man’s sternum, then one between his eyes.
“I know you would like to put two in my sternum,” Mr. Madness says. “Then one between my eyes.”
Murphy’s blood runs cold.
“I know this, because you know this.”
“Central Park.” Murphy snaps his fingers as his memory clicks into place. “You’re the asshole who made that sick headshot at the bridge.”
Mr. Madness nods.
“Not too many folks could make that shot.”
“Correct. I doubt few could.”
“I can make that shot.”
“I know you can.” Mr. Madness presses his palms down flat on the table. “I suggest we place our hands in a peaceful, resting position. Let’s attempt to communicate without looming threats.”
Mr. Madness turns, spotting a man standing near the restrooms. Peyton sees him too.
“Murphy—” Peyton starts.
“Tell me you have something helpful to add,” Murphy says.
“That guy over there.” Peyton zeros in on the man. “His name is Tinker.”
“This is correct,” Mr. Madness adds.
“He escaped from the lab with Brubaker.” She knows the faces from the security footage better than she knows the faces of her own family. Holding her breath, she spots another familiar face. “And that guy by the door. His name is Hiro.”
A large Japanese man has taken a position near the front entrance.
Peyton turns back to Mr. Madness. “You I don’t recognize.”
“He’s wearing a shit wig,” Murphy cuts in. “So, you’ve got an armed goon at the entrance and another near the kitchen. Smart. Nice little box you’ve put us in.”
Mr. Madness nods.
Murphy glances to Mother ever so slightly, then removes his hand from his Glock, placing both hands flat on the table and spreading his fingers wide.
He raises his eyes to meet Mr. Madness. Now what?
“Good.” Mr. Madness swallows hard. Blinks away an odd flash of emotion. “I’d like to talk about—”
“You okay there?”
“Yes, of course. I’m fine.” Mr. Madness fights to pull it together. “I’d like to talk about your wife.”
Murphy’s eyes narrow, taking in the sudden redness rushing into Mr. Madness’s cheeks. The tight tension in his shoulders. There’s been a massive shift in the mood and body language of this man who was so calm and cool only seconds ago.
“Who?”
“Brubaker. Lady Brubaker I believe you called her.”
“She’s not my wife.”
“In a way she is.”
“In a big way she’s not.”
Mr. Madness begins to shake.
“Part of her, part of you were together.” He barely gets it out. “She’s not for you anymore.”
Murphy stares back, offering him nothing. This guy is on the edge. Murphy needs to push him off. He makes quick eyes to Mother again. She’s on the same page.
“Do you understand what I’m saying to you?” Mr. Madness presses his hands harder on the table. His face races through shades of red. Spit drips from his lower lip. “Tell me you understand. You of all people should understand, about her. She needs to be rid of everything about you.”
“Tell you what, bro.” Murphy musters the most condescending tone he can produce. “I understand that you sound slightly smitten.”
“And gross,” Mother adds.
“Creepy too,” Murphy says.
Mother and Peyton both nod.
“Don’t do that.” Mr. Madness slams his hands down on the table. Plates and glasses bounce. “Do not do that.”
The other diners begin to take notice, looking over at their table. Murphy catches a glance at a woman sitting alone at a table next to them. She turns away, showing off a neon-green lizard tattoo on her neck. Odd for a place like this, but not completely off.
“Don’t do what?’ Murphy asks, turning back. “What am I doing?”
“I know.” Mr. Madness is locked in on Murphy. Furious eyes boring through him. “You are fully aware—”
“No. What exactly am I doing?”
“You’re trying to upset me.”
“Am I?” Murphy smiles. “Am I upsetting you, friend?”
“Stop calling me your friend. I am not your—”
“Then what should I call you?” Murphy looks again to Mother.
She gives an ever-so-slight nod.
Dr. Peyton widens her feet under the table, pressing them hard to the floor, knowing she will need a solid stance in order to move fast. No matter what happens. Not her first rodeo.
“They call me Mr. Madness.”
“Holy shit. Really?” Murphy bites his lip, fighting back a laugh. “Wow.”
Mr. Madness balls up his fists. Veins pop.
“Who’s ready for the world’s best apple pie?” A cheery, rail-thin waiter has moved next to the table.
“Now,” Murphy says to Mother.
Mother stabs Mr. Madness in the hand with her fork. Jamming it with all she has into the table before shoving herself back stumbling out from her chair.
Peyton grabs her fork. The waiter drops the pies. The plates crash to the floor and shatter into a collection of chunks and tiny pieces.
Murphy fires straight up, pulling his Glock and placing it an inch from Mr. Madness’s right eye. The customers nearby start running for the exits. Bolting toward safety. Screams fill the air. Tables and chairs are tossed aside or sent tumbling, bouncing off the tile. The shock on everyone’s faces punches pinholes in Murphy.
Not sure he’s seen this response to violence in a long time. The distance in their expressions. As if their world has been invaded by a form of ugliness they’ve only seen on small screens held in their hands.
Peyton keeps her attention on Tinker and Hiro.
They hold strong at their positions, only now they stand with weapons pulled.
The waiter stands planted to the floor.
“Run,” Murphy tells him.
The waiter takes off, stumbling over a knocked-down table next to him. Mr. Madness grinds his teeth, wiggling the fork back and forth, trying to work it free from his hand. Blood seeps out around the sides of the four holes.
“Leave it, asshole.” Murphy presses the gun into his eye socket. “Okay, Mr. Madness. How did you find me? Who are you with?”
Mr. Madness’s entire body shakes. Sweat drips.
From the edge of his periphery, Murphy sees Tinker drifting nice and slow toward them.
“Fine.” Murphy whips his gun to the left.
He fires two blasts, each shot tagging Tinker in the chest, sending him spinning backward down to the floor.
Hiro moves toward them. Charging hard.
“That’s two in his sternum. Guessing he’s wearing a vest. Truly hope not, but that’s what I’d have on, and since we’re all of like mind around here…” Murphy returns his gun to Mr. Madness’s head. “I do still need to put one in someone’s head. Got this compulsion for completion, ya know?”
Mr. Madness holds up a hand telling Hiro to stand down.
Hiro slows to a stop in the middle of the now almost-empty diner. The last echo of the crowd’s panic drifts into the sounds of classic pop music playing from above.
“Good boy,” Murphy tells Hiro. “Please plant your big ass right there.”
Murphy watches as dark-red trails stream down Mr. Madness’s face. Blood tears falling down from the eyes. Murphy forgot about the tears of blood that fell from his own eyes not long ago.
He remembers all too well the fear that goes with them.
That arresting feeling is still fresh in his mind. In a flash, the momentum of the moment slams into him like a runaway train. This man, this Mr. Madness, is experiencing the same thing that Murphy has. He shakes his head, attempting to free his mind of this.
Not now, Mr. Nice Guy.
Empathy is not the word of the day.
Let me take the whee
l, buddy.
The hand holding his Glock starts to tremble. His vision tilts. Stepping back ever so slightly, his gun pulls away. Mr. Madness yanks the fork from his hand.
“Murphy!” Mother screams.
Murphy’s eyes are vacant. Lost.
Dr. Peyton makes a move for her bag that still sits by her chair.
Mr. Madness pulls his gun. Murphy steps further back, almost falling over his own feet. Peyton fumbles around inside her bag, pulling a syringe out. Mr. Madness levels his gun on Murphy.
Mother picks up her chair and swings it like a war hammer. The chair cracks Mr. Madness in the back and jolts him from the aim he had on Murphy.
A single bullet fires from his gun.
Peyton spins as the bullet carves into her flesh. A pop of blood and bone between her neck and shoulder. The syringe drops to the floor.
Hiro storms over with his gun blazing.
Bullets whiz past Murphy, who stands motionless amongst the chaos.
As if he’s watching a video in slow motion. A spectator in a world he’s not a part of. He sees the rage in Hiro. The fire of his gun exploding in his direction but missing to the left. Part of Murphy thinks Hiro must be still be adjusting to the gun. His two minds must not have synced up completely. The knowledge of the weapon is there but the physical use of it is still a work in progress. Otherwise Murphy would be dead.
Wake up! His insides claw and scream.
Mr. Madness adjusts, turns his gun back on Murphy. Murphy looks to him, knowing this guy’s marksmanship is fully online. Mother launches herself across the table, sending the plates and glasses flying in every direction.
Snap out of it or you’re all dead.
Mr. Madness fires, this time at Mother. A hole explodes in the wood, almost splitting the table in two. Mother lands on the other side, taking the gun from Murphy’s hand. She spins around and squeezes off two shots that fire wild.
Bullets zip by Mr. Madness’s ear.
Hiro wraps his hands around Murphy’s throat. His thick hands squeeze hard, shutting down the flow of oxygen to almost nothing.
Sirens wail outside. Hints of red and blue lights flash through the windows.
Mr. Madness kicks what’s left of the table over onto Mother as she fires again. Mr. Madness runs toward the kitchen, pushing through what’s left of the staff seeking refuge. He shoves, stepping over or on those who remain in the diner.
“Move,” Mr. Madness calls out to Hiro.
Hiro and Murphy lock eyes.
Murphy shakes. His mind spinning and helpless. Like watching everything from inside of a dead body. Unable to engage. Locked, trapped inside a coffin of meat and bone that will not respond no matter how much he’d like it to.
Mother puts the gun to Hiro’s head.
Hiro slaps her, sending her flying into a pile of chairs.
Murphy’s world floods back online as he watches Mother fall. A string has been pulled. He unleashes a blitz of punches on Hiro. Thumps of fists on meat. Hiro steps back, absorbing the blows, and raises his gun, squeezing off multiple shots.
Murphy hits the floor and rolls for cover.
Hiro moves fast, moving toward Tinker. He tries to pick up his friend, to carry him over his shoulders wounded-soldier style. Mother scrambles on the floor away from the chairs, firing twice. Tinker slips from Hiro’s grasp, sliding back to the floor as the bullets scream overhead. Mr. Madness yells for Hiro from the kitchen as the sound of the sirens gets closer and closer.
Mother fires again.
Hiro’s skin rips as a bullet grazes his thick shoulder. Mr. Madness grabs him by the arm, dragging him away from Tinker toward the kitchen.
Once they’re gone, Mother crabwalks across the floor to her son. She holds Murphy’s face in her hands, looking into his eyes. Inspecting, looking for answers.
She slaps the hell out of him.
Murphy shakes his face hard.
She slaps him again, only harder.
He grabs her hands, then nods.
Got it. Enough.
Mother stares, letting him know this will be discussed later. Moving quick, Mother checks on Dr. Peyton. Peyton holds her wound while lying on the diner’s tile floor. Blood creeps between her fingers.
“Give that to him.” Peyton coughs out the words while motioning to the syringe a few inches from her stretching fingers. “We think it’ll lower the potential for crashing.”
“Potential for crashing?” Mother asks. “My boy just crashed.”
Murphy moves over next to them as the police swarm the diner outside.
“I’m fine,” he says, attempting to defuse the concern.
Tires screech. Car doors slam shut. Voices bark orders. They’ll be inside any second now. Mother decides now is not the time to get into her son’s state of mind.
“The balance is tricky with you.” Peyton smiles to Murphy. She’s fading fast. “Damn split-heads. Killing me.”
Murphy watches her eyes close as her body shuts down reacting to the shock and pain.
A single tear of blood rolls down his face.
Chapter 21
First responders have blanketed the diner.
Police and EMS weave in and out, assessing the damage.
The once comfortable, casual safe haven where families and friends came together to enjoy a famous slice of pie has now become a crime scene. The unthinkable has landed at the front door of their tiny community. They’d all heard about the riots in the city. Considered those big-city problems that didn’t affect their angelic lifestyle. There’s a dull murmur of emergency personnel as they work their impossible task of restoring calm. Still, through it all, the smell of freshly baked pie radiates in the air.
Cops close in on Murphy and Mother with guns drawn.
Mother puts her hands up high above her head. Murphy blinks. His expression blank. Eyes are dark, empty holes where windows for emotions should be.
The cops bark orders at him.
Murphy stares into tiny pinpricks of red light on their vests. Their body cams are filming all this. Murphy knows the images they are capturing of him will be taken, seized by the agency or erased completely. Oh yes, the CIA will swoop in soon. They know Peyton is here. They’ll want to know everything Murphy and Mother have to offer. Which isn’t a lot.
Murphy slumps down to the floor.
Thoughts blur then break, crumbling apart, floating into fragments of memories and ideas. The pieces of Murphy and Mr. Nice Guy are a jumbled mishmash of experiences the two have lived. Some happy. Most not. Some shared. Most not. Both working to parse what has happened.
Murphy feels people surrounding him.
Can hear the voices. He can hear Mother too.
Murphy remembers everything from Lady Brubaker. Those memories are clear as they can be. They are fresh and new. Ones both Murphy and Mr. Nice Guy had together. These are rare. Memories from the moment Peyton told him about the mixing of minds will be theirs. Murphy and Mr. Nice Guy’s. Not thoughts that have the pang of separation. He knows those will have the most weight going forward. The experiences they’ve had together.
He remembers meeting Brubaker at the resort bar in Iraq. The room where she stabbed him. She spoke in sentences of sharp, broken glass. The crazed, manic look she had in that street in New York when he aided in her capture. Mr. Nice Guy steps into the memory mix with something about his family. As if he tossed in an opinion from the back of the class. It’s a flash of something wonderful. A thought about his girls. The girls, and the life he shared with the kind half of Brubaker. The life he had with his wife, Kate.
Murphy feels hands on him.
He’s being lifted, moved. A rush of wind whips around him. He’s being moved outside. The world outside his mind is a smeared version of reality. A car door shuts. He’s lying down. His fingers can feel cool leather beneath him. An engine starts. There are sounds and colors, but they cannot be molded into anything understandable.
Nothing clear.
Nothing to
hold on to.
Murphy’s thoughts wander back to the girls. He wants to slap himself. Force himself to snap out of it. He’s been through this. They’ve moved past all this shit. Murphy and Mr. Nice Guy Noah have an agreement. They agreed the past is done. They are moving on with what they have. Playing the hand they’ve been dealt.
Period.
He screams and claws at the walls of his busted brain, knowing that it’s a wasted effort. None of this is easy. None of this is going to be that simple. He’s slipping, dropping down into a deeper place inside his mind. He’s been here before. This sensation of sliding into a tub of warm milk is familiar. His mind is shutting down. To call it sleep would be an insult.
This is something else.
An electric current of anxiety splinters through his head.
His body jolts. Not awake but not asleep either. Murphy checked out but has no idea for how long. Still lying down, but he knows he’s somewhere else. Feels different. The air has a new feel to it. Cool yet sticky. He’s been sweating. The sounds of muffled chaos have stopped. Through the fog of his partial vision, Murphy locks in on something beyond the blur.
A small object is moving toward him.
He’s changing. He knows it. Feels like honey sinking into the nooks and crannies of warm toast. Something is happening to him on a chemical level. It’s been coming on for days. Peyton said she thought they were crashing. Did she mean they were falling apart? Peyton told him once that everything was rushed. Proper monitoring and testing were pushed aside. They didn’t completely know the effects or what would happen. Only educated guesses and theories. Is the science that brought Murphy’s mind together failing? Is that what’s been happening?
The boxing ring. The firing range.
The headaches. The dreams.
Is Murphy coming undone?
The small object seems as if it is levitating toward him. Metallic. Made of steel, perhaps. Light bounces off the longer edge of it. Fingers hold it steady. He tries to fight what is coming toward him. He thrashes best he can, but forceful hands hold him down.