by David Beers
He waited until Bradley left and then walked up to the front door. He didn't bother looking around, didn't truly care in the slightest who saw him. After all, Zeus didn't come down from Mount Olympus to argue with farmers about the weather.
It only took him a moment to open the front door, picking the deadbolt with ease. Mr. Brown should invest in better security if he was going to run a torture chamber inside his house.
Luke closed the door behind him and stood in the stillness for a moment. He had been able to smell the other two people inside Mr. Brown's house when they came earlier in the morning. One smelled older—the odor of ashy skin and regret. The other? Fear. That was Ms. Lopez and Luke wanted to check in on her. He hoped Bradley had started; if not, Luke would need to push him a bit harder. He couldn't hold off the investigation forever, and he hoped this nasty business would be well done before they raided the house.
Luke walked to the back bedroom, following the scent of fear to the correct door. He opened it and Ms. Lopez gave a small scream. Luke peaked in at first, making sure that the woman was at least blindfolded. Bradley had done a good job with that, if nothing else.
Luke stepped inside.
She hadn't been touched yet. Veronica Lopez lay naked on the bed, her arms and legs tied to the bedposts, and a black towel tied around the upper half of her face.
Luke didn't even think she'd been raped. Nothing. He was just holding the woman captive. Luke looked around the room quickly, seeing that the window had been boarded from the inside and the rest of the room soundproofed with foam wedges. Mr. Brown had invested a lot of money in this little torture chamber, but he wasn't getting his money's worth, because no torturing was occurring.
"Are you here?" Lopez asked.
Luke stepped back and shut the door.
He heard the woman yelling, but only barely. The soundproofing worked well.
Luke walked back down the hall, following the smell of regret. He opened the door and was hit by the room's darkness. The interior smelled sour to him, like something rotting from the inside—something that should be dead, but wasn't yet.
"Bradley?" a woman lying on the bed asked.
Mr. Brown's mother.
"Bradley, is that you?"
Luke stepped further into the room and closed the door behind him.
"You're not Bradley," the woman said. She turned her head to look at him and Luke saw everything he needed. Even in the darkness, the black holes staring out from her head were readily apparent. Mr. Brown had taken her eyes.
Luke moved closer, stepping right next to the bed. The woman reached out blindly, trying to feel him, and only missing by inches.
"Where's Bradley?" she asked.
Luke said nothing, only breathed in the room's stench.
After a few more moments he turned and left the room, shutting the door behind him. The woman still called Bradley's name, but her voice was faint through the door.
A few more things to do before Luke could leave.
Luke walked down the hallway, until he found a door on his left. A dead bolt was on it, from the inside. Mr. Brown had the key, obviously.
"So that's where you keep your trophies," Luke said. He didn't try opening it; sooner or later, he knew he would see inside it.
Luke made his way to Mr. Brown's room. Sitting down at his computer, he maneuvered through the slight security measures and then began dropping evidence onto his hard drive. Luke needed to make sure that when Mr. Brown's computer was searched, there would be ample material for Tommy and Christian to understand why John Presley and Veronica Lopez had been harmed. Mr. Brown needed to be obsessed with Luke Titan. Not just during Luke's time with the FBI, but before as well.
Luke loaded mountains of information onto the hard drive's memory—places where Mr. Brown would never think to search, but FBI technicians most definitely would. He even disguised the date the data was written to the hard drive.
"Okay," Luke said, reverting the computer back to its original state.
He stood and left the house, careful to throw the lock back in place before going to his car. Now he needed to deal with Charles Ranger.
"I bet you hate being called, Charlie, don't you?" he said, remembering the letter.
What should he do with the old man?
An interesting question, but one Luke wasn't quite ready to answer yet. Alas, he should probably do his due diligence and follow Mr. Brown over to his place of work.
Veronica listened to the door shut.
"HEY!" she screamed, knowing it was useless.
She had screamed repeatedly while lying on this bed, screamed until her throat was raw, and nothing had come of it. She wasn't sure if the room was sound proofed or if she was out in the middle of nowhere, but whoever took her didn't care if she screamed until she passed out.
Veronica was glad the door was closed now, though. Glad that whoever came in left. She was cold, her naked skin bare to the air conditioned room. She still remembered the grubby little paws that had undressed her. They did it quickly, thank God, almost as if they were embarrassed to be doing it at all. She had thought at first she would be raped, whimpered and begged as the clothes came off. Cried out and screamed as her arms and legs were spread to the bed's four corners, sure that the sick invasion would take place next.
But it never came.
She had no idea how long she'd been here, but outside of urinating on herself and being held naked (not to mention blindfolded), she hadn't been severely harmed.
That wouldn't last, though. Sooner or later, the man that took her would do what he wanted, and Veronica knew that wouldn't simply be an oil massage and a kiss on the cheek. If she didn't get out of here, she was dead—after being raped.
She briefly wondered if Luke Titan had done this to her; she wondered about a lot as she lay in the dark alone. This wasn't Luke Titan's style, though. He wasn't one to tie up his victims and keep them around. This was a different kind of psychopath.
That's all Veronica knew. She was in a psychopath's house and no one had any idea.
Yes. Yes. Yes.
Charles could barely believe the words coming from the psycho's mouth, but with each new one that spilled out, Charles's happiness grew exponentially.
"Those motherfuckers." The word came out like an angry hiss.
Bradley was in front of Charles's bed, pacing back and forth. The door to his room was closed, Bradley making sure no one could look in on them before he started his rant.
"They think they've got me, I bet. They said they would get a goddamn warrant if they needed. And I'm supposed to get a lawyer? Where the hell am I going to get a lawyer from, Charlie?" Bradley stopped walking and looked across the bed. "Do you know any?"
Charles shook his head vehemently.
"No, of course not. You're just an old fucking geezer who can't talk. Well, they're not going to catch me. No fucking way. I'll burn the damned house down before I get caught."
Charles watched him pacing back and forth, more than shocked that his letter had worked so quickly. He'd sent it, what, two days ago or so? And already the FBI was at the psycho's door discussing warrants. Charles could have stood up and danced a jig all around the bastard if his legs worked. He would have danced from one end of this nursing home to the other, and sang too.
Instead, he sat there motionless, trying to keep his face from showing the joy he felt.
"I've got to do something quick, though. I just don't know what. I don't want to leave. I mean, I'm just getting started. The garage isn't nearly full."
Did this idiot really think he'd be able to fill up his garage-turned-in-to-a-freezer with eyeballs? Had he thought no one would catch him? He could just kill an endless amount of people and then put on a thick jacket and sit down in the middle of his artwork, five hundred eyeballs looking right at him?
Yes, Charles supposed that's exactly what he'd thought.
But he's not thinking that now. No, he's worried, and you better start looking out for yo
urself, old man. He's worried and if he's talking about burning down his house, then you should really consider whether or not he thinks you're a part of that house. Because you're evidence. Just like those eyeballs hanging from his walls.
What Charles needed was to keep the charade going just a bit longer, and for the FBI to hurry the hell up with getting in that house.
He waved the madman over to his bed.
"What?" Bradley said, sounding like a fat child who just had candy taken from him.
Charles started scribbling on his tablet.
Don't burn house. Just hide it.
"Hide it? The fucking house?" Bradley asked.
Jesus Christ, this guy was an idiot.
No. Hide evidence, he scribbled.
"Great idea, Charlie. Where would I hide it?" Sarcasm was thick in the bastard's voice. "Maybe I could turn the common room into the freezer, pin the eyeballs up there? Do you think management would think of it more as decoration or as arts and crafts?"
It was hard for Charles not to spit in the psycho's face, just hock up a huge glob of phlegm, then watch it roll down the bastard's face.
He kept looking at his tablet and his moving his pen. Here. Put it all in a cooler. Keep it under my bed and I'll tell management children brought it. Left it to keep my cokes cold. No one will look inside.
Bradley took a step back from the bed, his eyes moving to the headboard. Charles wasn't quite sure what he was doing, only that he had to keep the pyscho from burning down the house. But, if he brought the eyeballs here, everything was over. Charles would talk then; someone in this place would look at the cooler full of eyeballs underneath his bed, and then he'd explain in great detail exactly what the fuck the psycho had been doing.
Plus, there was the letter the FBI had. They'd back him up, too.
"That might work, Charlie. If I can trust you with them. It won't be for long, just enough time to let the bastards search the house and find nothing. I'll need to move my computer, but I can find somewhere for that to go. So, I'll let them come search the house, they'll see I've turned my garage into a freezer—but what the hell does that matter? I'll need to figure out what to do about Mother, but again, that's not a deal breaker. They don't have to meet her." He paused, still not looking down at Charles, just rambling away. "This might actually work." Finally he looked at the old man. "If I can trust you. I can, right, Charlie?"
Charles nodded just as vehemently as he'd shaken his head earlier.
It didn't occur to Charles until later, when it was too late, why the FBI hadn't come to question him.
Luke was staring at his cellphone when the gate's buzzer went off.
He'd been contemplating what to say to Mr. Brown, knowing that the next few messages needed to set him off. Charles Ranger had to die, that was clear, and Luke thought that if he could knock off Mr. Ranger and Ms. Lopez just before the cavalry showed up, that would work fine.
The buzzer brought him from his thoughts, though. He'd been lost in them, seeing very little of the world around him. He stood from the couch and walked to the intercom system, looking out the living room's front windows as he did.
"What time is it?" he said, his voice taking on the sound of sleep. The intercom's camera showed a cab with Christian Windsor sitting in the backseat. The cab had pulled up so Christian was leaning out his window to speak.
"It's two in the morning. I can't sleep. I called but your phone's off."
"So you just decided to show up?"
"I have a problem," Christian said. "You know this."
"You have a lot of problems, Christian. Come on in."
Luke buzzed the cab through then moved to his bedroom. He quickly dropped the clothes he was wearing into a laundry hamper and put a robe over himself. He looked briefly in the mirror, ran a hand through his hair, and then went to answer the door.
"You should invest in Ambien," Luke said as he let Christian in.
"Probably. I don't like taking chemicals though. I already hate the chemicals in the bread I eat, but what can I do?"
"You're wired. You sure you haven't ingested any chemicals tonight?"
"I haven't." Christian walked past Luke and into the living room. He didn't sit down, but paced in front of the coffee table. "The judge came back. No go on the warrant."
Of course Luke knew this, his phone having notified him immediately when the email arrived. His phone wasn't off, he'd only sent Christian to voicemail the two times he called.
"Okay," Luke said. "Sit down. Let's talk about it."
"I can't sit. This is the guy, Luke. He's the one and we have to find a way in."
Luke moved across his living room and to his kitchen. "I'm going to make coffee, though I'd advise you don't drink any."
"I don't like chemicals," Christian repeated as he paced.
"This is your first case. It's normal to be this excited, but you have to realize, these things happen. Due process is in place for a good reason, and we can't break it. Better a thousand guilty men go free, than one innocent man face the gallows. The saying is true."
He ground up the coffee beans and poured them into the filter.
"Veronica Lopez's agent called me," Christian said.
Luke's hand paused for a second as he took in the information. He needed to show surprise here. It wouldn't do to keep making coffee.
He turned around. "About what?"
"She can't find Lopez. She's called her for the past two days and got nothing. Lopez told her she'd spoken with me and so the agent called me after all her friends and family."
"Veronica Lopez is missing?" Luke asked.
Christian nodded though he didn't look to the kitchen, just kept marching across the living room.
"Well, she has to report that to the local police. That's not within our purview, and we certainly don't have time to chase down a reporter right now."
"I know. That's what I told her. It's just ... It's just on my mind. Look, we have to figure out how to get in the man's house."
Luke turned around and started making the coffee again. "Give me a minute, please." When the coffee was finished brewing, he poured a cup and walked over to the couch. "Sit with me, Christian."
He stopped pacing and looked at the empty spot on the couch, but didn't move toward it.
"Pacing will not get us a warrant any faster. It'll only wear my carpet thin. Sit."
Christian listened, sitting on the opposite end from Luke.
"We have twenty-four hour surveillance on Bradley Brown. Tommy has someone filling in right now, and he's going to take the morning shift. I'll go on tomorrow, and then the fill-in comes again. We took care of the security detail so you could get some sleep. You're not, though, and I think it's driving you a bit mad."
Christian stared at the coffee table, his right leg shaking up and down like a miniature jackhammer.
"Why can't you sleep?" Luke asked.
A few seconds passed before Christian answered. "I'm having nightmares."
"Have you had them before?"
Christian shook his head.
"Why do you think they're happening?"
"Are you psychoanalyzing me?"
"No more than you do me when we talk. We're both doctors, even if I'm an MD."
"And a PhD," Christian said.
"True. What are you seeing in your nightmares?"
"Bradley Brown. He's standing in a room made of mirrors, and it's dark, but there's an infinite amount of eyeballs staring out of the mirrors. They glow blue and they blink. He's smiling, grinning like it's all he's ever wanted."
"The dreams scare you?"
Christian nodded.
"Why?"
"Because when the lights come on, the room isn't made of mirrors. It's made of his mother, and the eyes are hers. And she's smiling just like he is. They're both ... happy."
Luke didn't say anything for a few seconds. He leaned back in his seat and took a sip from his coffee, placing his feet on the table. He stared out the large front wi
ndow in front of him.
"Is it his happiness that scares you?" he said. "Bradley Brown's?"
"Yes."
"Because you understand what he's wanting, and you're going to end it."
Christian nodded, though said nothing.
"What is it he wants?"
"His mother's love."
"And he finds it through the eyes he takes?" Luke said, still not looking over.
"He's trying to, even if he doesn't know it."
"The first of your doctorates, the one in psychology, you deal with theories of the mind. My medical doctorate deals with matters of the brain. You see into people. What do I see?"
"You see through them, Luke. They don't exist to you."
Luke nodded. "Fairly accurate ... Bradley Brown is trying to find order in this world, Christian. He's trying to find security. However, the only way the rest of the world can maintain order is if we throw his world into chaos. You can't let your ability to see him cloud what you have to do to him."
"I know," Christian said.
"He's going to slip up soon. When he does, we'll catch him. Before he kills anyone else."
"You really think so?"
Luke nodded. "I think your dreams will stop, too. Until our next criminal comes along."
Chapter 26
Christian finally left and Luke was alone again.
The police would begin looking for Veronica Lopez soon, and Luke would make sure they found her. An eyeless reporter, needing to use her ears better than her eyes for investigative journalism. She would most likely need a brail keyboard, as well.
Luke watched Christian's cab pull away from the driveway. The boy was too afraid to drive, and although he hadn't said it, Luke knew he enjoyed riding as it gave him time to think. Luke just hoped the cab driver would keep silent so he could.
When Christian looked at him, did he see himself, or at least a part of himself? As Luke did? He couldn't deny it—wouldn't. Luke lived in reality and while he wouldn't call himself a Buddhist (and knew no Arahat would ever consider him a Buddhist), he understood the tenets and felt that he'd mastered what the Buddha most wanted to teach. To be okay with reality. To not crave or find displeasure with anything.
