by David Beers
He reached the top of the stairs and looked at a large hallway in front of him. He didn't move down it at first, but just stared, understanding that the single hallway held nearly endless more, all with rooms his mind had filled.
He knew what he'd find if he went to the Surgeon's room, a video ready to be played—but he didn't need to see Bradley Brown kill his father.
"Why am I here?" he said.
To see what you're missing. Your mind's already seen it, you just haven't brought it up to your conscious yet.
Christian meandered down the hallway, taking a right, then a left, until he found himself in front of Luke Titan's room. The writing at the top was in Luke's unique cursive.
Why did you go to this room?
But he knew why. Because Veronica Lopez was missing and John Presley was dead. Because Luke had stared at John Presley's body without a single bit of sadness—of humanity—and more, he didn't seem to care who saw. And that was what bothered Christian, though he hadn't put a label to it until this moment.
Christian turned the knob and walked into his mind's record of Luke Titan.
A large painting plastered the back wall, having been created directly on it instead of inside a portrait like his mother's. Luke Titan looked back at him, or at least a perfect replica. His brown eyes spoke of intelligence, containing simultaneously both depth and shallowness. A depth that said the thoughts which went through his head could hardly be fathomed by others, and a shallowness which belied the simplistic view he had of the world.
Christian turned to the right and saw that the room had expanded, his knowledge of Luke increasing with the time he spent around the man. A large desk sat against the right wall and a thick, large book on top of it. Something new. Christian went to it.
The Life of Luke Titan
He stared at the cover, understanding that his mind had never done something like this before. His insights usually came in the form of live replays, where he stood next to people as they lived. Here, though, was something he would need to read and Christian didn't know how to feel about it.
He turned another page and started reading.
Tommy looked over at Christian. His eyes were open and he stared forward as if he was simply riding in the car, but Tommy knew that wasn't true. Not completely. Christian had gone somewhere—perhaps to his mansion. Tommy didn't know how he did it, or really what he was doing in that other place, besides 'thinking'.
"Jesus Christ. I never thought it could get weirder than Luke."
He drove on, having caught up to Brown's car. He stayed forty feet back, the first twinges of fatigue tugging at his body. Hopefully this would be over soon.
Hopefully Christian would come back to reality sooner.
Chapter 28
"I'm dreadfully sorry about all this, Mr. Ranger."
Luke stood in Mr. Brown's backyard, on the patio. Mr. Ranger was in front of him, a blanket draped over his wheelchair to keep the cool night air from bothering him too much.
Luke opened the back door with the key Mr. Brown had supplied, then he walked behind Mr. Ranger's chair and pushed the elderly gentleman into the house.
"I truthfully didn't know you were involved in this until you wrote me. Unfortunately, you wrote the wrong agent. My partner, Tommy Phillips, probably would have swarmed all over the letter and made sure Mr. Brown was apprehended and you were kept safe. I, on the other hand, deal with things a bit differently."
He stopped the wheelchair just outside the kitchen. The light was on inside and Luke was glad for it. He didn't mind the dark at all, but thought Mr. Ranger might, especially being in such a strange and foreign place. One that no doubt held many dangers for the old man.
Luke stepped in front of the wheelchair and walked to the kitchen sink where he turned to look at Mr. Ranger.
"Our friend, Mr. Brown, is in a bit of a predicament. As are you, I'm afraid. You see, I work for the FBI in a technical sense, but I've found with life that the greatest pleasure comes from serving a higher purpose. Unfortunately for you, the FBI's purpose is not high enough for my needs, and is only a means to an end. That end having started just recently."
The old man did nothing, only stared at Luke with an obviously intense mixture of hate and fear.
"I won't lie to you and say that you're going to live through this. You won't, but I do promise you're not going to feel the amount of pain that Mr. Brown wants you to. That would be cruel and you don't deserve that. Just the wrong place at the wrong time, but take solace, Mr. Ranger, in that you lived a long, full life and will leave behind children that remember you fondly."
The old man motioned in the air with his hands.
"Paper and pen?"
Mr. Ranger nodded.
"Let me see what I can find." Luke walked down the hall to Mr. Brown's room and saw what he needed, returning as quickly as possible. "Here you go."
The old man bared down on the legal pad and scribbled for a few seconds before turning it around to Luke.
Fuck you, you fucking psycho. I hope Bradley scrapes your eyes out.
A slow smile spread over Luke's face.
"Oh, you've got some kick in you, don't you, Mr. Ranger?" Lights flashed across the back wall and Luke looked up. "Speak of the devil and he'll show up. Bradley’s home, so let's see whose eyeballs end up getting scraped from their skulls, shall we?"
Bradley was indeed home and not happy. Rage had been replaced with fear and confusion. Perhaps not fully, as Bradley still wanted to squish Charlie's fucking eyeballs in his hands, but things were ...
Out of control, he thought.
He parked the car in his driveway, knowing that the FBI was behind him somewhere. Watching his every move.
No matter what happened, Bradley always told himself he would be more careful than the people he studied. And somehow, everything he'd planned and hoped for was being dashed. He was quickly seeing there might not be a way out, that he might go down just like every other serial killer.
He still had the cooler, though. He still had his batch of blue eyeballs—as long as he had them, things weren't fully lost.
He knew the man that showed up to Charlie's room; Bradley saw him on TV when the FBI announced they were taking over the case. And, apparently, this was the man who'd been texting him. Helping him. An FBI agent.
"Jesus-H-Christ," he said, still sitting in the driveway. "What the fuck am I going to do?"
He had listened to the FBI agent's spiel, detailing out that other agents were following him, and would continue to, until they either had a warrant or Bradley slipped up. The thin agent said they were watching him at that very moment and if he left with Charlie, he'd be arrested within minutes.
"I still want to help," the agent had said, and Bradley kept listening, mainly because he could find no words of his own.
He ended up giving the FBI agent his house key and agreed to stay for the rest of his shift. What else could he do? An FBI agent had caught him dispensing chloroform to an elderly man before telling him his whole world would end if he didn't listen.
And now Bradley sat outside his house, hoping that the agent hadn't been bullshitting him and was inside with Charlie.
But what are you going to do when you get in there? You two going to drink a few brews and talk about how funny this whole thing is?
Bradley didn't know.
He looked in his rearview mirror, wanting to see if he could spot an FBI car—but just as the agent said, he couldn't.
Bradley got out of his own car and locked the door. He walked up the driveway and twisted the doorknob; it was unlocked, as the agent said it would be.
He walked inside.
"We're in here, Mr. Brown," the agent said. Bradley hadn't even asked the man's name; he'd been too thrown off to say anything back at the nursing home.
Bradley walked to the kitchen, and sure enough, the thin, lithe man stood leaning against the kitchen counter while Charlie sat bundled up in his wheelchair, a legal pad on his lap.
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"Mr. Ranger here was just describing how he wanted you to scrape my eyes out before this was all over. Perhaps you'll have that chance."
"Why are you helping me?" Bradley asked. "And what is your name?"
"Luke Titan," he said. "I'm helping you because, for the time being, your goals and mine intersect."
Bradley stared at the man and tried to think of what to say next. None of this made any sense, but he felt he didn't have any choice except to be here looking at this person named Luke Titan. Somehow he'd lost control over this, and now someone he didn't know stood in his kitchen with all the answers.
"What's your plan, then?" Bradley asked.
Chapter 29
The Life of Luke Titan
An Introduction
I know his birthdate. I read that on the Internet. I know where he was born, and I know his parents's names, but all of that means little.
Because I don't know anything else about him.
But that's not completely true, is it? Because I know that he looks through people and I've even said it to him. I know that when I watched him stare at John Presley's dead body—and his wife’s—I saw a person showing no emotion. Not anger. Not hate. Not sadness. Not even a sense that something wrong had been done.
He stared at those bodies like I imagine a psychopath would when his rage is finished, and he's looking at the victim he just finished raping. The person lying there, writhing in pain, crying, while the psychopath stares on as if an ant was crawling around on the floor beneath him.
This book is in place of a video because I can't see into him. If I wanted, I could probably go to Tommy's room, that sits in one of my corridors, and watch much of his life play out in front of me. Instead of a video though, my mind has created this—a collection of thoughts that I haven't been able to bring to my conscious mind for a multitude of reasons. It may be titled The Life of Luke Titan, but so far that's a misnomer.
It should be called, The Lack of Luke Titan's Life as no one really knows a thing about him.
What else haven't I allowed myself to consider?
I pushed away Veronica Lopez's hypothesis: the people who challenged Luke died. Yet, she was challenging him and now she's missing. I pushed it away, though, because the logic behind it makes no sense, even if my gut tells me something different. He's a world renowned scientist, doctor, and will eventually be known as perhaps the greatest FBI agent ever to exist as well. What reason does he have to murder, or at least create circumstances for people to be killed? His entire career, and life, would end if he did that, because eventually he'd be caught. Eventually, everyone is caught.
But, that's not true either is it? If Luke is doing these things, he is a psychopath. Killers have avoided the police, even if only a few. Jack The Ripper. The Zodiac Killer. Others that no one knows—how many unsolved murders are there a year?
If Luke's a psychopath, is he betting that he's smarter than anyone else, and thinks he can't be caught?
Here, in your mansion, Christian, you can think these thoughts without needing to push them away. Here, if nowhere else.
So, what do I do? Because I'm heading to The Surgeon's house and yet I'm inside my own mind, focusing on Luke Titan.
What do I know? John Presley's murder doesn't match with the others; that's a fact. He died after speaking to Veronica Lopez about Luke. Veronica Lopez went missing shortly after talking to me.
Did Luke kill Presley, mimicking The Surgeon? And if he did, what does that have to do with The Surgeon? It's a separate crime, yet you're here instead of in his room.
Those are the questions I've been avoiding.
What has Luke done on this case, truthfully? Nothing. No great breaks. He works a lot of hours, but in those hours, what is he accomplishing? Neither Tommy nor myself have noticed because we've been too preoccupied. But, it's true. Tommy worked the angles I gave him, but Luke has given very little.
The question I need to answer tonight is what connection exists between Luke and Bradley Brown?
Chapter 30
Christian opened his eyes and saw Bradley Brown's street in front of him.
"How long have we been here?" he asked.
"Fifteen minutes," Tommy said. Christian didn't look over to him but could see Tommy staring from across the car. "What just happened?"
"I went to my mansion. I needed to put some pieces together. I'd been ignoring it for too long and missing things."
"Well, did you put them together?" Tommy asked.
"Some."
"Care to share?"
Here was the time to allow Tommy to hear this theory—which seemed so insane under the bright light of reality.
No, Melissa said. Christian didn't turn around, though he heard her voice in his backseat. Not yet. If you tell him now, he won't believe you. You'll isolate and ostracize yourself because you have nothing but the book inside your head.
"Later," Christian said. "We need to get in Brown's house, though. Now, not later."
Tommy's brow furrowed. "What?"
"I don't know if something is happening, but I think it might be. There's too much pressure on this situation. Brown is feeling it and we are too. Whatever we need, whatever evidence exists, it's inside that house and we have to get to it."
"I don't think you understand the point of a stakeout. It's to observe. If we go up to his front door right now, all that blows up. We can't observe him anymore. And, it's two in the fucking morning, Christian, in case you didn't notice."
Christian swallowed. He knew all of that but he also remembered what he read in the book: The question I need to answer tonight is what connection exists between Luke and Bradley Brown?
Tonight, not tomorrow. Now, not later. Christian never questioned what he found in the mansion; he trusted it implicitly because it never let him down. If the book said he needed to figure it out tonight, then tonight was what mattered. Not listening wasn't even possible, even if he wanted to. Christian had spent too many years following his mind's directions to go against it now.
No, Tommy was wrong. They weren't here tonight to observe. They were here to solve this damned thing.
Christian opened his car door without another word. He stepped outside and jogged across the street, not looking back to see if Tommy was following.
"Christian!" Tommy's voice was a harsh whisper that didn't echo, but reached Christian's ears all the same. Christian said nothing, but kept jogging, moving across the neighbors' lawns.
He stopped when he reached Brown's. He stood underneath a street light for everyone to see him. Should he sneak around the back, looking in windows, playing a sleuth? Or should he go right to the front door and force the issue?
Tonight. Not tomorrow. Not the next day.
Christian walked forward, across the yard and up to the front door. He could hear Tommy's feet hitting the pavement behind him, on his way to back up a partner that he surely must feel was insane.
Christian rang the doorbell.
Maybe everyone involved in this was insane.
Luke heard the doorbell.
It meant Christian had made his move. Certainly Tommy would never have marched up to the house during a stakeout, and no one else would be here at this hour. No, Christian Windsor had figured it out, or was on his way to doing so.
Luke thought that was simply remarkable. No fear entered his mind, no panic his body. He stood in exactly the same position as the doorbell's ring quickly faded, though Mr. Brown turned around at a speed which could have injured his ankles. Mr. Ranger stared at the door, too, hope blooming on his face.
Luke looked at the two men, understanding coming to him. Christian's move forced the issue, but that was fine. Luke's plans were long and complex, encompassing many different pathways, and if this was the one Fate forced him down, then he would meet it with a smile. No grim determination rested inside him, only a playful sense of fun.
Because this, above all else, would be fun.
"Who the fuck is that?" Mr. Brown a
sked.
"I think it's my partners."
"You told them I was here? You fucking told them!" Mr. Brown said, whipping back around.
"No, of course not. However, one of my partners is something of a savant, and I think he's started figuring out what's going on."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
Luke straightened up, no longer leaning on the counter. He walked over to Mr. Ranger's wheelchair and stepped behind it.
"I think Agent Christian Windsor may have an inkling that we're working together, or at least a connection exists here that shouldn't."
"So what do we do?" Mr. Brown spat out.
"Isn't that obvious? We kill them."
Bradley's left hand shook as he stood in front of the front door. He had looked through the peephole a moment before and saw Titan was right: two men stood there, the same two from the day before. The younger one in front, so that had to be Christian Windsor—the savant who had somehow figured everything out.
Bradley didn't know if he believed a goddamn word Titan said, but his left hand was shaking so bad he couldn't think of anything else to do.
We kill them, Titan had said.
He made it so sound so goddamn easy, just off two FBI agents who showed up at his house this early in the morning.
Bradley could hear his mother calling from the back, the doorbell having woken her. Titan better fucking deal with her, though he better not hurt her. Not a hair on her head.
The doorbell rang again and Bradley jumped backward a step. He looked down at his left hand and shoved it into his pocket.
"Fine, motherfuckers. Fine."
