Then the Dark: A Technothriller (Markus Murphy Series Book 2)

by Mike McCrary

  He starts by searching any updates to Brubaker. Looking for notes left by other agents. Emails, digging for updates, cross-referencing others involved in projects related to her. When that bears no fruit, he moves on to finding anything about Dr. Peyton. He saves her notes for last, thinking access to those will be the most monitored. Even though he’s been granted full access to her notes on Brubaker, he knows there are all kinds of eyes on what she does. And additional eyes on the eyes that watch what she does. Brubaker is the hottest topic in the CIA.

  Irving stops.

  He’s found something.

  Peyton has an unassigned block of time on a buried, limited-access team calendar. He doubts seriously she’s taking a holiday. This calendar is one only he and two other people, aside from Peyton, have access to. Margo Darby is one—not a great person to ask—but the third is a newer agent who serves more as an admin than anything else.

  He’s a young guy.

  Fresh-faced out of Camp Peary. Practically bouncing out of The Farm and eager as hell to please.

  Irving springs up from his desk. Pain tears through every cell in his body. An immediate reminder of his run-in with Mr. Madness and friends. He grinds his teeth even harder as he cuts down the hall knowing the passing seconds matter. He can press the young lad without the young lad knowing he’s being pressed. Time is precious right now. Irving can’t allow a single word or moment go unused.

  “Agent Nathan David.” Irving pokes his head inside the young agent’s closet of a cube. “Got a second?”

  Agent David almost spills his latte down the front of his discount suit.

  “Yes. Hi. How are you, Agent Irving? Good trip? When did you get back?”

  “Last night. Rough flight and all that.”

  Agent David nods like he understands. They don’t let him travel anywhere. Not yet at least.

  “Hey, where’s Dr. Peyton? Thought we had a meeting today.”

  “Oh, was I supposed to book a conference—”

  “No, no, it was a quick, touching-base kind of thing. Wasn’t on the books. She out of town?”

  “Yeah, it was last-minute.”

  “Darby kind of last-minute?” Irving raises his eyebrows.

  “Think so.” Agent David looks both ways. “Darby was all kinds of quiet about it.”

  “Never a good sign.”

  “Not historically, no. She lit me up about a conference room one time, then got all quiet for weeks. Scared the piss out of me.” Agent David catches himself. “Sorry.”

  “No, no, I get it. She’s scary as hell.” Irving remembers the dressing-down Agent David took from Darby. He sits on his desk, speaking low in a just between you and me tone. “Any idea where she sent Peyton in such a big-ass hurry?”

  “No, but I can…” Young Agent David puts his hands down on his ancient keyboard. They won’t give him a cool one. “I’m not supposed to scan the travel records. Scary Margo orders.”

  “Yeah. I get it, man.” Irving nods, looks around. “Respect is not easily gained around here, right?”

  “Absolutely.” The young agent presses his lips together.

  “I remember they boxed me out for years before they let me into the party. Fought my way in is more like it. It was hard. Took some time, but I wore them down, worked my way into their good graces.”

  “How?”

  “It’s weird, man. You have to show you can do the job. Performance matters, of course, but there’s also this thing where you have to show you’re one of them. You know? Team guy and all that. I have some college buddies who work in tech and it’s the same shit there too; you have to get the high-ups to like you. Somehow.”

  The young agent shakes his head.

  “I know.” Irving rolls his eyes. “I know it’s junior high type bullshit but it’s real, man. People, no matter the profession, like to work with people they like. Or, at the very least, people they can tolerate.”

  Irving pretends to think about it, then checks both ways.

  “Look, man. There’s a happy hour some of us go to. Nothing crazy, just a dive bar for a few drinks. My level. A few show up that are higher.” Irving is almost in his ear. “Maybe you pop in one night. Have a beer or two. Smile. Laugh at their jokes. Tell some young guy stories. Nothing these dinosaur douchebags like more than that.”

  Agent David’s eyes light up.

  “You think so?”

  “Fucking know so.”

  Placing his fingers back on the keyboard, Agent David’s mind rips through the possibilities.

  “Now.” Irving leans over his shoulder. “I only need to know where she landed, and maybe just in general, why she went there. I can take it the rest of the way.” Irving holds out his arms. “Help me out, brutha?”

  Chapter 19

  This is it.

  The grandaddy of them all.

  Number one on the list.

  The best slice of pie in the country.

  Some would argue on the planet. This time, these words are not just some biased, homespun hyperbole. Not some braggadocio small-town marketing blah-blah. What lies beyond the glass doors of this establishment has been voted upon. Vetted. Due diligence performed. Heated competitions awarded by an impressive panel of expert judges.

  The slice of apple voted number one is here.

  Along with the number one cherry and the number two blueberry.

  The first one, the apple, was unanimous. No argument spoken nor could one be made. But the cherry was somewhat controversial. The blueberry fell anywhere from one to four on most ballots, with the average landing it in the two slot by mere basis points. But make no mistake, there’s some damn fine pie eating beyond these doors.

  Murphy’s fingers tingle with excitement.

  Mother can’t stand it. She wants to throw open the doors and run in like a child screaming with arms flailing.

  This is their moment. A moment they’ve earned, dammit.

  Pushing open the doors, they both fight to hold it together. In a calm and orderly fashion, they enter and, in a pleasant tone, kindly ask the hostess for a table for two. Pete’s Perfect Pies is not a huge place, but it is bigger than any of the other spots they’ve been to. Probably needed the extra space to handle all the foot traffic their accomplishments have generated for them over the years.

  The waitress stands by their table.

  Her smile is wide, warm, nice as can be.

  They both order coffee, then decide to start off by sharing a slice of the blueberry. An appetizer of sorts. Wet the beak, if you will. They will cleanse the palate with a second cup of coffee, then share a slice of the cherry. Then, of course, that world-beater of a pie—a thick-cut slice of apple. There is no rush. No need to shove this experience along in a hasty fashion. This may very well be the top of the mountain for these two.

  This is what they’ve been searching for ever since Murphy picked Mother up from prison in that classic red Porsche 911. Never in a billion years would either of them imagine this is where they would be, given their history. If you’d told them a few weeks ago how things would work out, they’d have called you a few choice, horrible names, then perhaps punched you in the face.

  This is a new world for them both.

  One they should have been a part of years ago but had no idea how to get there. It’s been a strange trip for Murphy. A lot of pain received and given to get to this spot. His mind is still, at best, a twirling mess of bloody conflicts and mushroom clouds of confusion. The starts and screeching halts of thoughts and memories are a constant struggle to reconcile. He’s worked to try and not categorize them. Tried to not label them Murphy’s or Mr. Nice Guy’s. Some are obvious, not much he can do about those. Murder and mayhem belong in one basket, but he wants to accept the collective experience as theirs. No need to assign names to them. It’s exhausting. Not productive, either.

  He looks to Mother as she stirs her coffee.

  Her eyes light up as the thick slice of warm blueberry pie is placed in the center of
the table. Two forks. One plate. She waits for Murphy to take the first fork. He politely declines, giving her the honors.

  Murphy remembers when he was much younger. The way Mother stood in the corner while he fought one of her boyfriends. During his early years, he lost those fights. He’d learn. Absorb the pain. Swallow the rage. Later, as time went on, he won more and more of them. Put a few of her “special friends” into the hospital. She watched on while these fights got meaner. Tougher. More violent. She’d stare at him with apologetic eyes but never offered an apology.

  He knows he’ll never get one.

  Murphy watches her enjoy the pie. Not long ago, these memories would have put him into an instant state of anger. His rage would have been immediate and possibly uncontrollable. He’d want to scream at her. Put a fist through a wall. But now he doesn’t feel the need for any of that.

  He’s different.

  In ways too numerous to count. Accepting the past for what it was is an option for him now that wasn’t there before Dr. Peyton and friends changed him forever.

  Murphy takes a forkful of pie.

  The crust is flakey with the oh so satisfying feeling of a soft crunch as his teeth sink in. The blueberries are not overpowering but you know they are there. Mother’s eyes almost roll back into her skull. Murphy nods. No words needed. Their forks clink as they battle for another bite.

  This is the life Dr. Peyton envisioned for her patients.

  Murphy sees that now. He didn’t get it completely when she passionately explained it to him at that hotel in New York. Everything was too fresh. No way to grasp all the details. But what Murphy is experiencing at this very moment is what Peyton wanted. He hopes she works out the bugs, because if every subject has to go through what Murphy went through, this ain’t gonna work.

  Murphy snickers at the thought.

  “What’s up with you?” Mother asks.

  “Nothing.”

  “Just a little giggle box today?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Murphy licks his fork clean. “You don’t need to know everything.”

  “Fair.” She looks around the packed restaurant. “Where’s that damn slab of cherry?”

  “And the best apple pie in the history of apples.”

  “Correct.” Mother stabs her demanding finger on the table. “Get that bitch Pete in here and find out where in the sweet hell is our sweet-ass apple pie.”

  They share a laugh. They could barely carry on a conversation over the phone a few days ago. He was in a Bagdad resort. She was in prison. Today they are sharing laughs at Pete’s Perfect Pies.

  Life does move pretty fast.

  “Sorry,” Dr. Peyton interrupts. “Please don’t kill me.”

  Murphy and Mother drop their forks.

  “I mean seriously, please don’t kill me,” Peyton stresses.

  “What do you want?” Mother picks up her fork.

  “You know they aren’t going to give up,” Peyton says. “The CIA isn’t simply going to let this go.”

  “They can eat dick,” Murphy says.

  “Be that as it may—”

  “You still following us?” Murphy forks some pie, offering Peyton some.

  “No.” Peyton waves off the pie.

  “She hasn’t been following us?” Murphy asks Mother.

  “Seems like she’s following us,” Mother says.

  “I’ve been followed before and this seems a lot like she’s—”

  “No. Yes.” Peyton takes a seat. “Yes, I have been following you. Never stopped, you know that. And no, I don’t want any of that goddamn pie.”

  “Rude as hell.” Mother tries to flag down a waiter. “I’ll get you a plate.”

  “I don’t want—”

  “You need a plate,” Murphy says. “You like following us around, Dr. Stalker?”

  “You enjoy following those children?” Peyton stares at Murphy.

  His face drops.

  “That was not part of the deal. A deal that you agreed to.”

  “Not sure my attorney”—Murphy motions to his mother—“ever saw a formal, executed contract.”

  Mother shakes her head with her cheeks bulging with pie.

  “They’ll know if you get within a hundred yards of those kids, Murphy. Agents will swarm if you get within fifty. You were lucky this time. You got way too close to that family, but I was monitoring you closely that day so I called off the dogs. They wanted to send a team in.”

  It’s as if all the air was sucked out of the room.

  Murphy had always suspected they were watching him, but he didn’t know to what extent. The word Peyton used—family—stabs at him like an ice pick. Those are his children. His girls.

  We gave them up, man.

  So they could have a better life. They can still have a great one. We’ve been over and over this.

  Made the best of a shitty hand.

  “You were specifically told to stay away. You asked to stay away. If for no other reason, it was for their protection. We can’t have you…” Peyton feels all the guilt for what she’s saying. For what she’s about to tell him. “They’re being moved.”

  “What?” Murphy’s expression drops.

  “We’re moving them to a neighborhood you don’t know.” She holds up a hand, attempting to reassure him. “Somewhere nice. Safe. Great schools. But a location you will not know.”

  Murphy fingers dig into the table. The idea of the girls being moved somewhere unknown plunges deep like blade made of ice pushing slowly between his ribs.

  “You here to shame me into working with those assholes? That the thing?”

  “If that’s what it takes, sure. Not above it.”

  Mother’s frustration grows as she tries and fails to get a waiter to come over to the table.

  “I have zero interest in working for the CIA or anyone else. Also part of my deal.”

  “While that might have been implied in your mind, it wasn’t necessarily part of the agreement.”

  Her words—in your mind—dig into the meat of his thoughts as if her words had claws. His mind is at the center of all this. The seed of all that’s happened. The reason for this conversation.

  Mother finally gets the attention of a man.

  Not dressed as a waiter but has a certain service look to him. He’s very dialed in on their table. Maybe he’s management, she thinks. Seems a little ragged, a little creepy, but he’s paying attention to them at least. He smiles as he moves toward the table.

  Perhaps that’s Pete, she thinks.

  “I’m a free man.” Murphy pinches some flakey crust, tossing it in his mouth.

  “You’re a science experiment that is still evolving.”

  “That’s sweet. So glad you stopped by.”

  “Murphy, I’m sorry. I’m not here to fight or to make things worse than they are, but there are some realities that we have to face.” Peyton resets. “We’ve seen shifts in the other subjects like you.”

  “Shifts? Subjects?”

  “Almost like parts of their personalities are collapsing.”

  “I’m strong like bull.”

  Mother laughs, almost choking on her pie. She continues to wave the manager over to the table.

  “I have something I need to give to you,” Peyton continues. “A quick injection. Not a long-term solution by any stretch of the imagination, but we’ve run some tests and what I have is a temporary fix.”

  “Peyton, greatly appreciated but—”

  “It’s an advanced SSRI.”

  Murphy blinks.

  “Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitor.” She reaches for her bag. “Modified to fit within your special circumstance—”

  Murphy places a hand on her elbow. Not incredibly forceful but enough to get her attention.

  “I’m fine.” Murphy stops, realizing. “Wait. Is this about her? Is Brubaker okay?”

  “Murphy.” Peyton pauses, considers. “There is something else.”<
br />
  “Spill it, doc.”

  Her lips part, about to answer.

  The manager clears his throat, now standing at the front of the table.

  His hair is ratty. His clothing is hipster disheveled.

  “Yes?” Mr. Madness asks. “How can I help?”

  Chapter 20

  “Pie. The apple pie. Our apple pie.” Mother’s blood simmers. “Where in the hell is my pie?”

  Mr. Madness turns his attention to Murphy.

  Murphy can’t place him, but there’s something with this guy. Something about him that rings a bell to Murphy. Can’t specifically remember how he knows him, but there is a look and feel to him that drips with a thick goo of familiarity.

  “Have we met?” Murphy asks.

  “Possible.” Mr. Madness adjusts his shirt, breaking eye contact. “Another life, perhaps?”

  Murphy catches a quick glance of the outline of a gun under his shirt. Tucked into the front of his jeans. Murphy’s fingers begin to tingle. He slows his breathing, steadies his pulse. Keeping a calm mind and an active body is what someone once told him was the key. The key to killing without getting killed.

  “Okay. Another life, you say?” Murphy clucks his tongue. “That’s kinda fun. Dated, labored and tired, but an almost fun response. Now seriously, man. Where do I know you from?”

  Peyton turns toward Murphy. Her heartrate ticks up as she catches the look on his face. She’s witnessed this vibe before. Never a good sign.

  “No. Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure, sir.” Mr. Madness is ice. His words flat.

  Mother doesn’t like it. She grips her fork, moving it under the table.

  “You sure about that, friend?” Murphy asks.

  It’s his eyes. More like what’s floating behind them that Murphy is dialing in to.

  “We are not friends,” Mr. Madness corrects him.

  Last time Murphy felt this odd, unexplainable connection was in Montauk. That night he got into a nasty gunfight with multiple people who shared his mind. Brubaker’s people. It was all in their eyes too. Also, in the way they spoke. Not unlike the way this guy is speaking. It’s a feeling that can’t be easily defined but it cannot be mistaken for anything else. Murphy’s hand moves toward his Glock that he has tucked behind his back.