The Surgeon

by David Beers

  "Will you tell me about it?"

  Bradley understood luck affected everyone's life. It was the great equalizer, not guns. Sometimes it shone on you and sometimes it didn't. Sometimes its brother showed up, Bad Luck, and scorched you.

  Bradley knew the brother well. He'd met him early in life and the bastard stuck around for a long, long time. It only made sense that the bright side of the kinship would show up now; Bradley deserved it. And if his Good Luck was someone else's Bad Luck, then so what? If it was a zero-sum game, then Bradley had certainly lost enough to deserve some wins.

  Veronica Lopez's alarm system wasn't armed. Bradley didn't know why and honestly didn't care. Had she armed it, he would have had to figure out another way to take her, or abandon the idea completely. Luck made neither of those options necessary, though.

  He requested two days off from work, thinking that would be enough time to do everything he needed. Bradley had an idea of how he wanted it to go, with the end being the most important. He envisioned the woman walking down the street, blind (and bandaged, because Bradley wasn't cruel like his father), her hands out in front of her while blood leaked from her eye sockets to her cheeks, before finally running down her neck. He hadn't decided if he would leave her naked when he freed her, or whether she should wear some sort of clothing—but that was ancillary. Watching her stumble forward, hands in front, desperately trying to find help while cars drove by her, the drivers staring but too frightened to do anything. That was what he wanted. That was what he would have.

  He waited until Lopez left for work, though when he saw her get into a cab, he wondered if perhaps that would mess up his plans. She wasn't carrying any real luggage, though, only a messenger bag and a purse; neither of which gave the indication of long term travel.

  He decided he'd try anyways, and if she didn't show up by tomorrow morning, then he'd go home and tell whoever was texting him to fuck off. He didn't have time for mess-ups. Didn't have room for them, and with the frequency of his headaches, knew that he needed to do something quick.

  He went around to the back of the house, careful to keep an eye out for anyone who might see him. Everything looked clear. He found the door he wanted easily enough and pulled a long dish towel from his back pocket. He wrapped it around his elbow (he'd worn a long sleeve shirt, for extra protection) and then hit the door's glass window.

  It shattered and fell to the floor, causing Bradley to jump back. He looked around the backyard, but there was nothing to see. Nothing to hear, either. Not even dogs barking.

  He reached carefully through the door and turned the lock on the other side. He needed to be quick now, because he had to check on the alarm. Had to see if there was one. He rushed to the front hallway, searching, but not able to find the small box.

  "GODDAMNIT!" he shouted panic rising in him. If it was going off, he was fucked. FUCKED. He quickly turned left then right, then finally found the keypad.

  He read the word displayed across the screen: INACTIVE.

  Bradley let out a long sigh and at the end of it, dropped his backpack to the floor. He had brought everything he needed to take the woman, and if he couldn't take her, then he had the tools for that as well.

  Bradley took his time walking around the house, looking at pictures and checking medicine cabinets. He liked to watch. He had loved watching Crystal at the bar, and once he found out where Lauren York lived, he watched her for weeks, too. Bradley couldn't watch Veronica now, but he could see a large part of her life.

  That would do until she got home.

  Veronica knew she couldn't process what George Nintz told her, not without sleep. She thanked the professor and said she'd be in touch with him soon. She meant it, too. Something was here, something underneath the surface, and it all swirled around Luke Titan. She knew that with an unshakeable certainty, and believed George Nintz knew it too. He might have known it for some time, even if he never said a word to anyone.

  And how could he?

  Who would believe him?

  Who had believed John Presley?

  No one.

  Veronica didn't even pull her computer out when she got on the plane. She simply leaned her seat back as soon as they allowed it and closed her eyes. Sleep came soon after and in it, she dreamed. She stood fifty feet away from Luke Titan on an empty street. The sun was coming up behind him, and his shadow cast long on the road. Buildings lined it, so there was only forward or backward for Veronica. She could run away, or walk down the road to meet the menace before her. Despite the sun behind him, she saw him smiling. His teeth white amidst the shadows all around. Smiling at her. Daring her to come, to challenge him as others had.

  The landing jolted Veronica awake.

  She grabbed the arm rests next to her, sucking in a quick breath before realizing what was happening. Luke Titan wasn't in front of her, just another airplane seat.

  It was a dream. You're home, she thought.

  Veronica exited the plane; she'd only brought her computer bag and purse, so she skipped baggage and went straight to the cabs.

  She hailed one quickly enough, and told the driver her address.

  When she made it into her house, she dropped everything on the kitchen table and went straight to bed. She didn't bother taking her clothes off. Veronica slept, deep and dreamless.

  Bradley stood above the woman, her head no more than eighteen inches from his leg.

  He wore latex gloves and stretched panty hose around his face. He had it pulled up above his eyes at the moment, so that he could truly see her.

  He heard her walk in the house, had actually been drowsing himself, lying under one of the guest beds upstairs. She hadn't done much moving, just put her things down and went right to bed. Bradley let himself waken a bit more, and then he pulled himself from beneath the bed. He was already wearing everything he needed, and had shaved his body (besides his head) completely of any hair. The FBI wouldn't find any evidence from him here.

  Now, looking at Lopez, he saw she might be the most beautiful of the three he'd taken so far. She was older, in her mid-thirties, but her dark Latina skin looked smooth in the barely lit bedroom.

  Bradley bent down so that his ear was next to her mouth. Her breath breezed lightly across his face. He turned slightly so that his lips almost touched her and looked at her closed eyelids.

  "What color are they?" he said, his words barely escaping.

  She didn't stir.

  He brought both hands up, one holding a rag and the other empty. He held it next to her face for just a second, getting another glimpse at the peace that would soon flee from her, and then plunged the rag down.

  Her eyelids burst open and her body stiffened as she automatically struggled to throw him off. He pressed down harder, watching her fight soften.

  And then it ended, her eyes closing again.

  He took his hand and opened the right one.

  Not blue, but green. Bradley suddenly understood that was perfectly fine.

  Chapter 24

  Luke opened the letter. He felt surprise for the first time in a while, not expecting to receive a handwritten note from anyone. Luke had strong feelings about letter writing, an art form that was nearly lost from the world. He knew there was no use raging against its demise, though email had done more to destroy people's civility than nearly anything else. Email led to the invention of social media, and from there, to sending pictures to one another instead of actual thoughts and feelings.

  So, receiving a letter early in the morning from someone he didn't know—well, he liked it.

  Luke opened the envelope, careful not tear it improperly. Respect should be paid to someone that took the time to write by hand, then fold the letter inside a protective shield, find postage, and get it to the US Postal Service. Luke would show that respect.

  He pulled the letter out and read it.

  When finished, he looked out his office window, seeing Christian walking back from the coffee machine. Luke smiled and waved.


  "My friend has made an enemy, it appears," he said as Christian sat in his cubicle.

  And now, Luke knew his friend's name: Bradley Brown.

  "What do we have?" Christian said as he crossed Tommy's office. "Also, when do I get an office? I'm tired of sitting on the floor with the proletariat."

  Tommy smiled. "When you actually start making arrests. Or one arrest."

  "You want to bet how many arrests I have at the end of my career?" Christian said. He looked down as he spoke, smiling slightly. "I bet it's more than you."

  "Not if your career lasted four hundred years and mine ended tomorrow," Tommy said. "Now quit baiting me and let's look at this .... So far, we've had agents at eleven of the twenty-three ex-farm families. Nothing is showing up yet. We've got one in Atlanta and that's where you and I are heading right now. The father died eleven years ago and the farm went up for sale the year after."

  Christian looked up. "He's our guy."

  "If your farm theory's correct, it would seem like it, but we're not going to get a warrant based on dreams. We have to go to the house and see what we see. They taught you all this at Quantico, right?"

  "He's our guy," Christian repeated. "What's his name?"

  "Bradley Brown."

  At eight in the morning, Luke, Tommy, and Christian arrived at 2242 Briarbrick Lane.

  Tommy took the lead, knocking on the door. Christian stood just behind to his left, Luke on the right. Luke found it interesting that all three understood who was killing these people at nearly the exact same time, even if by different means. Of course, there was no such thing as fate—only circumstance, but Luke still found it entertaining.

  The door opened and Luke saw his friend for the first time.

  A young man, though they all knew his age from the files they read earlier that morning. Twenty-eight. His eyes were blue, just like those he took.

  "Can I help you?" the man asked.

  "We're looking for a Bradley Brown," Tommy said.

  "That's me."

  "I'm Special Agent Thomas Phillips, to my right is Special Agent Luke Titan, and on my left is Agent Christian Windsor. We want to speak with you for a few minutes."

  To the man's credit, he showed no nervousness.

  "Well, what's this about?"

  "A case we're working on. We are moving through leads and your name came up, so we thought you might be able to help us."

  Bradley smiled. "I'm all for helping law enforcement. Come on in. I do have to be at work in two hours, so hopefully this won't take too long." Bradley opened the door wider and motioned the agents to move inside.

  "Thank you," Tommy said.

  Luke understood why Bradley invited them in—it had nothing to do with not looking guilty, and certainly nothing to do with helping: Bradley thought he was smarter than the three of them. He would prove it right now, by answering all their questions and giving them nothing usable. He'd send them off and when he was finished, he'd go back to work on Veronica Lopez.

  At least, Luke hoped he was working on her.

  There was also the pesky letter to deal with. Mr. Brown had a lot on his plate, even if he didn't know it yet. Luke was happy to spoon feed him, however.

  The four men stood in the living room, and Bradley asked them to sit down.

  "So, what can I help with?"

  "You grew up on a farm, correct?" Tommy asked.

  "Yes. Myself, my mother, and my father. Well, Father grew up there, Mother married in to it."

  "And your father, what happened to him, Mr. Brown?"

  "He passed away on the farm. A bad accident."

  Luke watched Bradley's face as he spoke, and right on cue, he showed the perfect amount of sadness. He even looked down at his feet, breaking eye contact with Tommy.

  You've practiced this, Bradley, Luke thought. And you know your role well.

  "How long have you lived here, Mr. Brown?"

  "Eight or nine years, I think. My mother and I."

  "Where is she?" Tommy asked.

  "She's asleep."

  The first crack in the man's armor. He hadn't expected the question; how long had it been since anyone asked about his mother? Years, probably. She might be asleep, but Luke thought Mr. Brown didn't want anyone speaking to her, ever.

  "Mr. Brown, there are some dates we'd like you to take a look at," Tommy said as he handed a piece of paper over. "You'll see them right there. Is there any way you can account for your whereabouts on those dates?"

  "Hey, woah," Bradley said. "I thought you were asking for my help. This sounds like you're accusing me of something."

  "No, sir. Not at all. By telling us where you were on those days, you're helping tremendously."

  "I'll have to look at my work schedule. These are a lot of days. I'm sure I was working for some of them. If I wasn't there, I was here."

  "With your mother?" Luke asked.

  "Yes."

  Luke glanced over to Christian. The boy wasn't looking at Bradley Brown, but rather, the area around him. The entire living room, even trying to sneak peaks into the kitchen and back hallway.

  "Mr. Brown, would you mind if we looked around?" Tommy said.

  "Actually, I would mind," Bradley said. "I think I'd like you three to leave. I can account for my whereabouts, but it's better that you speak to my lawyer about all of this. I'll have him contact you."

  Tommy looked to Luke and gave an almost imperceptible nod. He knew. Christian knew. Luke knew, too ... but not in the same way.

  "Certainly. We may be following up with a warrant to search the premises, and we need you to confirm your whereabouts by tomorrow evening," Tommy said, standing up from the couch.

  "Sure," Bradley said.

  Luke thought his friend might not be feeling quite so smart at that moment.

  "What do you think?" Tommy asked.

  "It's him," Christian said.

  "Yup," Tommy said. "Luke?"

  Christian watched Luke nod as he looked out the car window. "I agree. I think we've got him. Now we just have to prove it."

  "The eyes are in his house somewhere," Christian said.

  "Most likely, yes, but we've got to figure out how to get in there. No judge is going to give us a warrant yet." Tommy started the car and pulled out of the driveway. "We'll need a tail on him starting today, either of you two want the duty until we can have agents assigned to it?"

  "I'll take it," Luke said.

  "Not going to pawn it off on the newbie?" Tommy asked.

  "He needs sleep. You can look at him and see that."

  Christian was grateful for the respite. He hadn't slept at all last night. Dreams were beginning to plague him in a way they never had before. Bad dreams. Frightening dreams.

  "Alright, let's head back to the office. Luke, you'll need to get a car and head back out here, until we can assign a relief team."

  "I know, Dad," Luke said.

  Christian leaned back against the headrest and quit actively listening to their conversation. He closed his eyes and thought back to Bradley Brown's house. Everything had been in perfect order. A bachelor living with his mother ... that might have made sense. Yet, it didn't feel like he lived with her, it felt like she lived with him. That would make the cleanliness a bit more suspect.

  What does that matter? Christian wondered. He can't be clean? You're clean, does that mean you kill people?

  No, of course not, but everything seemed too ordered. Everything seemed too perfect.

  Except when Tommy asked about his mother. That hadn't been ordered. That definitely didn't fit in to Bradley Brown's neat little life.

  Christian felt like he should go into his mansion. Another movie was ready to play—one about Brown's father. Something happened on the farm, though perhaps not an accident—but Christian was too tired to watch it. He didn't want to see any more gore. Not right now.

  "Luke, what did the file say happened to Brown's father?" Christian asked with his eyes still closed.

  "Farm accident.
Apparently a tractor started running while Mr. Brown was in front of it. The tractor cut him down right quick, as I think they might say on a farm."

  Christian nodded. "Gruesome and brutal."

  "That fits our suspect, though. Mrs. Presley's death was nothing if not gruesome and brutal."

  Christian felt Veronica Lopez's questions starting to rise in his mind at the mention of the Presleys—he shoved them away, hard.

  "The key is his mother," Christian said. "We've got to get in touch with her."

  "If she's alive. By the way, I got an email while we were inside. An old ID. Her eyes are blue," Tommy spoke.

  "The question is," Luke said, "whether he's taking blue eyes in tribute or retribution."

  "I'm betting retribution," Tommy said.

  "Sometimes," Luke said, "we hurt those that we love the most. Maybe Mr. Brown hurts those people because he cares about his mother."

  "It doesn't fucking matter. He can tell it all to his lawyer appointed psychiatrist once we catch him."

  Christian kept quiet the rest of the trip, wishing he could nap, but knowing what waited for him if he did.

  Chapter 25

  Luke didn't follow Bradley to work. The unmarked car he was using had GPS installed in it, so if someone wanted to keep an eye on Luke, they could. He didn't care, though. If anyone asked, he would simply say Bradley Brown hadn't left his house.

  Luke wasn't sure how he would use this to his advantage yet, but he wanted to check up on Veronica Lopez. The reporter that couldn't quit chasing after him. Luke knew she had been up to Harvard, though not who she spoke to. Hacking into her computer records hadn't been hard, and when he saw the round trip ticket to Boston, he understood where she was going.

  She knew about Trevor. Old Trevor. Someone else who couldn't leave well enough alone. Luke was glad that people like Trevor and Veronica existed, they made Luke's purpose that much easier to accomplish. Those that sniffed around areas they shouldn't. Perhaps they were agents of God, just as Luke was something else's agent.