by Mike McCrary
Might as well keep her in the dark where he can. He knows he needs to hang on to whatever nuggets of gold he might have. God knows she’s holding back a shit ton of treasure as well.
“So, you think Mr. Madness is working with this Dr. Ernesto?” Murphy asked.
Darby snapped her fingers, then pointed at Murphy as if he nailed the answer on a game show.
Darby talked about a guy named Agent Irving who worked with Peyton. She said he was a slimy little shit, but she’d never taken him for a turncoat dickhead.
Again, Darby’s words.
She went on to say there was nothing in Irving’s past that would tie him to Ernesto or the project that produced Mr. Madness. Irving lost a fellow agent not long ago. One he worked with closely. Irving almost lost an eye, and the agent was killed in a slow and brutal fashion during a messy operation that went bad almost immediately. Darby said that after an investigation, some thought signs pointed to sloppy, impulsive work on Irving’s part. However, there wasn’t enough hard evidence to suspend, fire, or even demote him. He’d been sketchy ever since.
Removed and distant, were the words she used.
Didn’t take a genius to understand she likes Irving for the murder of the young agent. Murphy noticed Darby stayed away from talking about Brubaker. Not directly at least. She never even brought up her name. Murphy made another mental note. The personnel file he’s keeping in his mind on Darby is getting thicker and thicker by the second. Is she trying to avoid the painful subject of Lady Brubaker when talking to the famously volatile Markus Murphy? Perhaps.
“Give me the protein,” Murphy said after he finished his second cup of whiskey-coffee. “What do you think is happening?”
“That’s why I’m here talking to you,” she said.
“You wouldn’t be here unless you had something solid.”
“Ideas I have. Facts I’m a little light on.”
Murphy didn’t feel like wasting time punching each other in the face. There was a game going on there. Always is. One that was being played by both of them. She doesn’t trust him, and he does not trust her. A perfect little you give, I give dance that was in full swing in that small, beige, shitty room. Murphy gets it. He’d rather cease with all the ceremonial bullshit, but he knows the steps.
“What facts do you have?” he asked.
Darby told him they raided Agent Irving’s apartment. Dumped his cell, computers—personal and CIA-issued—along with everything else that could be traced back to him. Social media. Email. Credit cards. Bitcoin transfers. The whole lot.
Murphy knows that doesn’t happen simply based on an idea of hers. Sure, it starts with a feeling, but she had to have something a little less squishy in order to dig into Irving like she did. She had something solid on him, and maybe, just maybe, those wet eyeballs she was showing off weren’t just bullshit CIA tears. She might indeed be a little pissed about the death of that young agent.
“We’ll go after him, but that’s it,” he said.
“We?”
“Me and Mother.”
“She’s not authorized.”
“Neither am I.”
Darby took a deep breath, maybe it was two, and then she nodded as she said she needed to talk to some people. She explained that she’s a big deal at the CIA but not the biggest deal.
Murphy explained what else he needed in order to take on this task she was asking of him. His needs involved money, guns, and access to information without the usual thick layers of bullshit. He would talk to Darby, and only Darby, until Peyton was well enough to get back into the mix.
Darby didn’t argue.
She also did not nod or offer any verbal confirmation, but she listened with her eyes locked on his. She held her phone tight by her knee as if waiting for him to finish laying out his demands before she started making calls.
Words like autonomy were also used by Murphy. Making it clear he does not work for her or the CIA. Said he would take this as far as he felt comfortable. His tolerance for pain is higher than most, but he has no interest in reliving what he went through with Lady Brubaker. It almost killed him, and probably should have.
Didn’t share this with Darby, but he wants Mr. Madness and his pals to pay for what he did to Peyton. For what they tried to do to Mother. Murphy felt his blood run like a river of fire as he thought about what could have happened in that diner.
All that could have gone wrong.
There were a lot of people there who had nothing to do with any of this. They were there, much like Murphy and Mother, to enjoy some of the best pie in the universe. They, along with Murphy, Mother, and Peyton, were pretty lucky to a certain extent. One undeniable fact hits him like a sledgehammer—Murphy had frozen when everybody needed him.
He’ll never let that happen again.
He can’t.
Darby asked him two simple questions. Two Murphy did not want to answer.
“Is your mind stable enough to handle this?” and “Can you do this?”
Murphy had taken the bottle of bourbon on his way toward the door while super special agent Darby’s two questions hung in the air unanswered. Not sure if he hadn’t wanted to give her an answer to chew on, or if he hadn’t wanted to think about the truth.
He thinks of the look in Mr. Madness’s eyes.
It was the same with Hiro and Tinker. Wild, unstable, and completely void of compassion. He’s seen it before in people. Seen it in the mirror too many times to count. Impossible to predict what people like that will do.
One thing is certain, this will not end with a handshake or a calm agreement between rational adults. This ending will be made of blood and lost lives. Murphy would love to avoid the spilling of his own blood, but he knows he has to be better if he wants to lower the odds of the dead being those he cares about.
“On second thought,” Murphy said to her, “I’m going to leave Mother with you.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“I’ll bring her in once I know more about what’s going on.” He takes a drink straight from the bottle. “Still need the guns and money, however.”
Murphy almost made it to the door before Darby snapped her fingers.
“One other thing. Can’t believe I almost forgot this part,” she said. “You may want to start with Tinker.”
Murphy turns back.
“Yeah,” Darby said. “We’ve got him somewhere safe. Just waiting to talk to you.”
Chapter 24
Murphy is escorted downstairs by one of the CIA’s gray suits.
Tinker sits chained in the middle of a poorly lit basement.
This is the somewhere safe Darby talked about.
It’s beyond quiet. So quiet there’s a buzz. The door shuts behind Murphy as the basement’s dim glow grows brighter until it reaches an acceptable level for polite interrogation. The walls and ceiling are padded with soft, two-inch-thick soundproofing material. The floor is rough concrete with scrappy remains of flooring clinging to the rock where it was broken up and yanked away not long ago. A big-mouthed drain sits under Tinker’s chair and the room is kept at a cool, bordering on cold, temperature. A hint of ambient music begins playing. You’d have to hold your breath to hear it, but it at least takes a bite out of the dead silence.
All part of the show, Murphy thinks.
Pretty much a waste of time with this guy.
Seems a little cliché to have someone locked up in the basement, but Murphy lets that go for now. He might give Darby some shit later about being too on the nose with this one. To make matters worse, the basement Tinker is chained up in is below the safe house. He was down here the whole damn time. Sitting, waiting while Murphy and Darby snacked on pie, chitchatting, and sipping booze-infused bean juice.
Unbelievable.
Tinker’s head jerks giving a wet cough. His head hangs low as if he dropped something important. They have his feet secured together with his torso strapped to a steel chair that’s been bolted to the floor. Another chair—leather, com
fortable-looking, and unbolted—sits about four feet in front of Tinker. His hands have been left free, but he’s seated an arm’s length from everything in the mostly empty, small room. A polished table is along the opposite wall, where a pitcher of ice water sits along with a sandwich on a plate.
Nice, Murphy thinks.
Thinker’s free hands give the illusion of freedom with the world just out of his reach. Murphy guesses this is the desired effect, but they also wanted his hands available to look things over, and then provide him this food and water as a mechanism for peaceful negotiation with positive reinforcement. Murphy knows Tinker thinks the same way he does. They share a mind, after all.
That peaceful stuff ain’t gonna work.
At least their thoughts should be similar, but without knowing the other side of Tinker’s mind, it’s impossible to know for sure what’s going on it there. Who’s in there strolling the fields of Tinker’s mind side by side with Murphy? Does he hold a Mr. Nice Guy in that skull of his?
He should be so lucky.
Shut it.
“Hey, buddy.” Murphy slides over the fat, cushy arm, sinking deep into the vastly superior leather chair across from Tinker.
“Hi, Markus. Pleasure.”
“I’m sure.” Murphy spins, putting his feet on the floor. “You can call me Murphy. I feel like we already know one another. On a certain level.”
“Fair enough.” Tinker allows a chuckle that breaks into another hard cough. “Tinker.”
Murphy nods.
The cough more than likely stems from the two slugs he put in Tinker’s sternum. The tactical vest he was wearing saved his life, but it didn’t come without some painful side effects. He wasn’t at the time, but Murphy is now happy he didn’t put one in his head. Murphy pulls the bottle of bourbon from his jacket—the one he lifted while talking with Darby—wiggling it side to side so Tinker can see what Murphy considers a peace offering. One he’s sure will work.
“No, thank you,” Tinker says.
“Really?” Murphy scrunches his nose, then takes a hit off the bottle. “Perhaps I don’t know you at all.”
“I was sixty days sober when they took me. Did you know that?”
Murphy shakes his head.
“I was at a meeting. In a church. Those assholes grabbed me right out of the parking lot.” Tinker’s eyes are heavy. He’s working hard to get his words out. “They do a lot to try and make you forget that part, ya know? When they take you. How they remove you from your life. Sorry, extraction of the subject.” Tinker puts his hand out, asking for the bottle. “Tell you what, let me have a snort of that juice. I busted up my sobriety at a strip joint anyway. Care of you taking over my head.”
“Sorry.” Murphy hands him the bottle.
“Don’t be.” Tinker drinks. Closes his eyes as it burns down his throat. Tries not to love it. “Having your thoughts, your memories. They’re so much fun, ya know? It’s a lot to take in but it has been a trip, man. Like an entire skill set has been stuffed into my brain but without any instructions included. No step-by-step on what to do with it all.” His distant gaze lifts to Murphy. “Being a skilled killer is an amazing thing.”
“Well, I don’t like to brag—”
“And yet, so damn sad.”
Murphy shifts in the leather. He leans forward, squeezing his hands together. Considers asking for more, but he already knows what Tinker’s talking about. Yeah, there’s a Mr. Nice Guy in there.
“It was fun for a while, not going to lie. Pretty cool shit if I’m being open and honest here. But I hope they mixed you with someone who helps you, Murphy. I truly do, because after what I’ve seen lurking inside your mind…” Tinker jams his finger hard to his skull. His chin quivers. “I don’t want to see any of this anymore.”
Murphy stares, feeling the temperature of his own blood begin to chill.
He’s eye to eye with someone forced to share his thoughts. A man who, much like Murphy and Mr. Nice Guy, never asked for any of this. Tinker hands the bottle back. Tinker breathes hard in and out of his mouth, placing his hands on his knees and rocking back and forth as much as the chair will allow him to move. Murphy sees him digging his nails into his thighs, as if attempting to hang on.
“Well.” Murphy takes another drink. “It’s not all unicorns and blow jobs for me either.”
“I bet.” Tinker laughs. “Hate you so much.”
“Understandable.” Murphy clucks his tongue. “I do need to ask you some things. Maybe I can still help you out.”
“I only want one thing.”
“And that is?”
“I’ll wait. Like to hear what you have to say first.”
Smart, Murphy thinks. Tinker’s shaking slows to a stop. He releases his nails from his thighs.
“You can probably guess the questions, but I’ll ask them anyway.” Murphy hands him the bottle again. “Do you know a guy called Agent Irving?”
Tinker nods his confirmation.
“Do you know where he is?”
“I know where he was.”
“Okay, that’s a start.” No need for Murphy to confirm Irving’s involvement. Darby was spot on about that. “How about a dude named Ernesto? He’s a doctor. A scientist. I know you know him in some way, but have you talked to him since you escaped?”
Tinker nods again.
“You want to tell me the one thing you want now?”
“Not yet.” Tinker smirks. “Keep going, you’re doing well.”
“Thanks.” Murphy resets. “Did Irving or Ernesto send you and your buddies to kill me?”
Tinker shakes his head no.
“Oh?” Murphy’s eyebrows rise.
“No.” Tinker takes a drink. “They wanted us to kill all of you.”
“You don’t say.”
“I do say.” Tinker hands the bottle back to him.
Murphy presses his lips together. Darby was spot on about all that as well.
“Did a fairly scary CIA woman already talk to you?”
“No.” Tinker shrugs. “Some guys in suits locked me up down here, then left me. You’re the first one to actually speak to me like a human.”
A spike of guilt hits Murphy. Not sure why. He’s not responsible for what’s happened to Tinker, but he still feels a heavy weight.
“Okay.” Murphy claps his hands hard, attempting to snap himself out of it. “Of course, I’m going to need to know where you last saw Ernesto and Irving and all that. But otherwise, I’m fresh out of questions.” He takes a drink. “So, let’s hear this one thing you want.”
Tinker smiles.
He closes his eyes tight. His shoulders draw inward as if he’s shrinking. Deflating. His head drops low as his back rises and falls with each labored pull of air. The stillness of the room is hard to take but Murphy doesn’t dare disturb it. Then, in a snap, Tinker’s head lifts, his eyes pop open wide. His stare is searing. A fire burning in the dark.
Murphy sits up, pushing himself into the cushion of the chair, taken back by Tinker’s shift.
“Do you want some water?” Murphy asks. “I can get you something—”
“The one thing. The only thing I want, Murphy?” His voice cracks. “I want to die.”
Murphy feels himself peeling away.
“I don’t want to be like this.” Tinker’s eyes are like dark coals. “I don’t want you in my head anymore.”
Murphy’s stomach falls through the floor. Mr. Nice Guy has no answers, nothing to offer in the way of comfort. He looks away, down, anywhere but Tinker’s vacant eyes.
“Pull that Glock and finish the job.”
“I’ll try to help you.” Murphy gets up, moving toward the stairs. Desperate to be anywhere but in front of him.
“Help me? Think you’ve done quite enough, man.” Spit flies from Tinker’s mouth. “Don’t you slither away. You can’t let me live like this. Please. I didn’t ask for this.”
Murphy waits at the door, hoping the gray suits monitoring the room will hurry a
nd let him out.
“You’re a virus, Murphy.” A larynx-tearing scream. “I do not want your diseased mind.”
The door opens and Murphy pushes through.
“Murphy!”
Chapter 25
The elevator dings.
Cool night air greets Mr. Madness and Hiro as they move away from the elevator and out into the dark floor. The parking garage is mostly empty save for a few abandoned vehicles here and there. A homeless man relieves himself in the corner, then screams something about the Lord of Assholes before running away.
Mr. Madness and Hiro each hold their guns low, staying inside the shadows while they let their eyes adjust to their environment. They’ve said little to one another on the way over to the garage.
Mr. Madness buried deep in his own thoughts.
Hiro keeping to his natural affinity for silence.
This dormant garage is a spot selected by Ernesto. The location was sent to them via the time-bomb text messages they’ve become accustomed to. Received on the phones that were slipped into their pockets.
Mr. Madness is frustrated with himself. No, it’s worse than that. He hates his own weakness. He had a chance to kill them at that diner. They were all there, right in front of him, and he failed.
Why did I hesitate?
He knows why.
Mr. Madness wanted to hear about Brubaker from him. His pulse pounds. He fights to control his breathing. Air pulls in deep, filling his lungs as if he has extra storage for it somewhere. In and out, focused yet calming. The events at the diner strip away pieces of him. So angry for missing that perfect opportunity. He was there. Markus Murphy was there. Peyton, along with Murphy’s mother. There’s no question that his pathetic—nice quiet Cody—personality stopped Mr. Madness from capitalizing on the opportunity.
He was stopped by an old woman.
The bullet he did fire might have killed the doctor. Dr. Peyton might be dead right now, but he doesn’t know. That was what Ernesto wanted, after all, but not what Mr. Madness truly wanted. He doesn’t answer to Ernesto. No strings on him.